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I LIBRARY OF CONGRESS.! 

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| UNITED STATES OF AMERICA^ 




VANQUISHED VICTORS; 



OR, 



Sketches of Distinguished Men 



WHO OVERCAME THE OBSTACLES 

IN THEIR WAY TO FAME, BUT FAILED TO GAIN THAT 

SELF-MASTERY WHICH IS THE GREATEST AND 

GRANDEST OF ALL CONQUESTS. 



By DANIEL WISE, D. D., 

AyTHOR OF " UNCROWNED KINGS," " STORY OF A WONDERFUL LIFE," ETC. 



" He that ruleth his spirit is hetter than he that taketh a city." 
"What is a man profited, if he shall-=gain the whole world, and 
lose his own soul ?" 



r\ } 





CINCINNATI: 

HITCHCOCK AND W A L D E N. 

NEW YORK: NELSON & PHILLIPS. 

1876. 



THE LIBRARY 
Of CONGRESS 

WASHINGTON 



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\s> 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, 

HITCHCOCK & WALDEN, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



PREFATORY NOTE. 




^\ T E purpose of this volume is to give 
young people a bold outline of the 
lives and character of a few men whose 
names live in modern history, to point out 
the sources of their power, to record their 
1 successes, and to note the steps by which 
they ascended from obscurity to distinction. 

fits other and higher aim is to place their 
deeds in the light of those exalted ethical 
principles which were given for the guid- 
ance of human conduct by Him "who 
spake as never man spake. ;> In doing this the 
writer, while looking with the pitifulness of Chris- 
tian charity on the faults of these immortal sons 

3 






4 PREFATORY NOTE. 

of genius, has not permitted his judgment to be 
so blinded by the splendor of their achievements 
as to fail of perceiving the utter hollowness of 
that success which does not include the regen- 
eration of the spiritual nature and the attainment 
of that noblest of all crowns — the crown of eter- 
nal life. On the contrary, he has faithfully but 
kindly portrayed the vices by which their great 
natures were enchained to the sole pursuit of the 
honor which cometh from men, and held back 
from that "patient continuance in wel 1 -doing," 
by which men who strive for the highest success 
"seek for glory and honor and immortality." 

Should the story of these illustrious sons of 
fame, who were vanquished in that grand arena 
in which the prize is "eternal life," teach the 
young reader how to place a right estimate on 
gains which may be weighed by golden weights, 
described by titles of honor, expressed in strains 
of popular applause, or determined by what is 
written on the roll of mortal fame, the writer's 
aim will be reached. Should it incline some 
aspiring young man to "count all things loss" 



PREFATORY NOTE. 5 

which do not contribute to the development of 
the spiritual nature, he will feel that he has won 
an author's most precious crown. 

DANIEL WISE. 

Englewood, N. J. 



CONTENTS 



I. PAUL JONES, 

THE HERO OF OUR REVOLUTIONARY NAVY. 

The Celebrity of Jones — His Birth and Boyhood — His 
Introduction to a Sailor's Life — Self-improvement while a 
Cabin-boy — His Rapid Advancement — A Stinging Cal- 
umny — His Emigration to America — Enters the American 
Navy — Wins High Reputation — Placed in Command of 
the Ranger — Attempts to cut out a British Ship of War — 
Failure of a Discreditable Scheme — Becomes the Terror 
of the Scottish Coast — Fights with the Drake — A Brilliant 
Victory — In Command of a Squadron — Terrible Battle 
between the Poor Richard and the Serafiis — Jones Vic- 
torious — Treachery of one of his Captains — Blockaded in 
the Texel — A Skillful Escape — French Honors conferred 
upon him — Honored by Congress — Is made a Russian 
Admiral — Dismission from Russian Service — His Death — 
Estimate of his Character, .... Page 13 

7 



8 CONTENTS. 

II. AARON BURR, 

THE UNPRINCIPLED LAWYER AND POLITICIAN. 

Meeting of Henry Clay and Burr — Burr's Good Ances- 
try — His Father's Courtship and Marriage — Burr's Birth 
and Childhood — His Life at Princeton College — The Col- 
lege Revival — His Deliberate Rejection of the Christian 
Religion — Studies Law — His Services in the Revolutionary 
Army — Illness — An Incident in his Military Career — Ad- 
mission to the Bar — Marriage — Success at the Albany and 
New York Bar — Ruse in Court — Burr wins Social and 
Political Distinction — Becomes Vice-President of the 
United States — Loses his Popularity — His Duel with 
Hamilton — Popular Indignation in New York — He is hon- 
ored in the South — Ambitious Projects — His Trial for 
Treason — Self-exiled — Returns to America an Ostracized 
man — Causes of Burr's Ruin, . . . . Page 40 

III. THOMAS CHATTERTON, 

THE MARVELOUS BOY-POET. 

The Child's Choice — Chatterton's Birth — His Unprom- 
ising Childhood — Sent to a Charity School — Begins to 
write Poetry — Apprenticed to a Scrivener — His Duties — 
His General Good Conduct — His First Literary Forgery — 
Begins to win Reputation— Flis Ambition — Tries to find a 
Patron — Rejects the Christian Religion — A Wicked Threat- 
Loses his Place — Goes to London — First Prospects and 
Successes — Disappointments — Self-destruction — Key to his 
Character — His Foolish Scheme — His Advantages — What 
he might have been — The Victim of his own Evil 
Heart, 66 



CONTENTS. 9 

IV. BENEDICT ARNOLD, 

THE TRAITOR OF OUR REVOLUTION. 

The Boy who was admired and feared — Arnold's An- 
cestors — His Childhood and Education — Apprenticeship — 
Runs Away — Enlists — Deserts — At Norwich again — His 
Marriage — Business Career — The Battle of Lexington 
moves Arnold to enter the Army — His Exploits at Ticon- 
deroga — His Daring March to Quebec — Commands a Flo- 
tilla on Lake "Champlain — His Chagrin — Bold Deed at 
Danbury — Honors — Is wounded at Behmus Heights — In 
Command at Philadelphia — Splendor of his Establish- 
ment — His Marriage — Is censured by a Court-martial— In 
Command at West Point — His Treason — Andre's Fate — 
Arnold's Escape — His Reward — His Miserable Condition — 
Scorn of Noble Minds — His Death, . . . Page 80 



V. ROBERT BURNS, 

THE BARD OF SCOTLAND. 

Appearance of Burns in Edinburgh — Story of Highland 
Mary — Birth and Boyhood of Burns — Hardships — Advan- 
tages — First Departures from Virtuous Living — Sinks 
lower into Evil — Partial Retributions — Flis First Song — 
A Stream of Poesy — His Inspirations — His First published 
Songs — His Sudden National Popularity — Profits of his 
Second Publication — Goes to Ellisland — Marries Jean 
Armour — Failure as a Farmer — Becomes an Exciseman — 
Convivial Habits — Death — Honors to his Memory — His 
Character, ........ 106 



10 CONTENTS. 

VI. STEPHEN GIRARD, 

THE NAPOLEON OF MERCHANTS. 

Appearance of Girard — His Birth — His Starting-point 
in Life — How he rose to the Command of a Vessel — Goes 
to Philadelphia — Marries Polly Lum — Unhappy Results — 
His Ventures in Trade — A Fortunate Lease — His Wife 
becomes a Maniac — A Lucky Accident — His Plan of 
Life — Enlarges his Trade — Builds Five Ships — The Yellow 
Fever in Philadelphia — His Heroic Services — Discharges 
a Faithful Captain — Discourtesy to a Visitor — A Quaker's 
Tact — Gift to a Methodist Church — His Rebuke of some 
Episcopalian Solicitors — Opens a Bank — Personal Hab- 
its — A Fatal Accident — His Death — His Life a Spiritual 
Failure — Girard College an Illustration of his Skep- 
ticism, ........ Page 133 

VII. CHARLES LAMB, 

THE GENIAL HUMORIST. 

The Temple — Lamb's Birth — His Child-life at Christ's • 
Hospital — Becomes a Clerk — Lamb's Oldest Friend — Influ- 
ence of Coleridge on his Mind — Lamb's First Writings — 
His Essays — Lamb's Literary Friends — His Domestic 
Afflictions — His Sister's Insanity — Marvelous Self-devotion 
to his Insane Sister — Mary Lamb's Reciprocal Devotion — 
Shadings of Lamb's Character — Flis Profanity — His Intem- 
perance — His Irreligion — His Last Days, . . 155 

VIII. EDGAR A. POE, 

THE UNHAPPY POET. 

The Author of "The Raven" — Poe's Parentage — Left a 
Waif on Society — His Foster Parents — Is a Spoiled Child — 



CONTENTS. I I 

His School-life in England — Return to Richmond — Bad 
Traits — Goes to the University — Gambling Debts — Ingrat- 
itude — Becomes a Cadet at West Point — His Dismissal — 
His Subscription Poems — Discarded by his Foster-father — 
His First Literary Success — His Way opens — His Vice 
costs him his Tripod — Wise Counsel of a Publisher — His 
Marriage — Literary Reputation — His Unhappiness and 
Poverty — His Wife's Death — Becomes a Lecturer — Engages 
to marry a Widow — A Fatal Fit of Drunkenness — Death in 
a Hospital, ....... Page 180 

IX. BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON, 

THE AMBITIOUS ARTIST. 

Scene at a Breakfast-table — Hay don's Boy-life — Early 
Inspirations — Partial Blindness — Begins the Study of Art — 
Original Ideas — Northcot's Advice — His First Historical 
Picture — Success — Paints Portraits — Returns to Historical 
Painting — His Dentatus — Dastardly Conduct of his Ene- 
mies — A Foolish Pique — Suicidal Warfare with his Brother 
Artists — Recovers his Popularity — Begins a Ruinous 
Habit — Exhibits his Pictures with Success — Another Great 
Picture — In the Debtor's Prison — At Work Again — A 
Painful Rejection — Struggles for Bread — Discouragements — 
Efforts of Despair — A Terrible Deed — His Appearance and 
Character — His Life a Moral Failure, . . 197 

X. OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 

NOVELIST, ESSAYIST, AND POET. 

A Clumsy Little Wit — Oliver's Birth and Early Edu- 
cation — His College Life — Flight and Return — His Im- 
providence — Pie graduates — Visits his Uncle — Studies for 



12 CONTENTS. 

the Ministry — Refused Ordination — Becomes a Medical 
Student — Goes to Leyden — Becomes a Philosophic Vaga- 
bond — Returns to England — Expedients — Begins to win 
Reputation as a Writer — His " Vicar of Wakefield" — 
Becomes a Famous Man — Pecuniary Embarrassments — 
Death — His Character, . . . . . Page 224 

XL PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, 

THE SKEPTIC AND POET. 

An Uncommon Scene in a College — Shelley's Ances- 
try — Early Skeptical Opinions — Expelled from College — 
Goes to London — His " Queen Mab " an Atheistic Poem — 
His Foolish Marriage — Separates from his Wife — Suicide 
of Mrs. Shelley — Flies to Switzerland with Miss Godwin — 
Remorse of Shelley — Marries Miss Godwin — Skepticism 
and Matrimony — Shelley's Melancholy End — Shelley's 
Good and Evil Qualities, ..... 248 

XII. CHARLES DICKENS, 

THE POPULAR NOVELIST. 

Who is Boz? — Birthplace of Dickens — His School 
Life — Ambition awakened — In a Blacking Factory — At 
School again — Dickens, Senior, and the Attorney — 
Studies Short-hand — His First Contribution to a Maga- 
zine — First Successes — Marriage — Sudden Popularity of 
"Pickwick" — Visits America — His Public Readings — 
Their Immense Profits — Dickens buys Gadshill Place — 
The Position he won — Religious Views of the Novelist — 
Irreligious Spirit of his Novels — Dickens a Humanita- 
rian — His Convivial Flabits — His Restlessness — Separation 
from his Wife — His Death — A Grave Inquiry, . 272 



Illustrations. 



FACE PAGE 

Capture of AndrE , .... Frontispiece. 

Burns's Birthplace, IXI 

Edgar Allan Poe, . . . ■ - .180 
Oliver Goldsmith Arrested, .... 241 



Vanquished Victors. 



PAUL JONES, 



Stij* g^ro of our 3&zhtilutionnT£ Nafc^. 

rfAUL JONES, as is well known, was a 
I naval hero who won high renown during 
our Revolutionary War. He was, in fact, 
the Nelson of our little navy at that pe- 
riod. With slender means, he made his name 
terrible to England and honorable in Europe. His 
deeds won him a distinguished place among fa- 
mous men; his patriotism gave him no mean rank 
among the founders of our great Republic; his 
name is honorably emblazoned on the roll of 
fame. In these respects he must be reckoned 

13 



14 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

one of the world's victors. Was he vanquished 
in the nobler field of moral conflict? Let the 
record of his life answer this important inquiry. 

Paul Jones, or John Paul, as he was originally 
named, was the son of a gardener in the employ- 
ment of the Laird of Arbigland, in Scotland. He 
was born June 6, 1747. Bred amidst the roman- 
tic scenery of the coast of Galloway, he early 
learned to love a rambling life. To explore the 
towering heights of the neighboring mountains, to 
penetrate the rocky caverns which lie along the 
grand coast line adjacent to his home, and to ply 
the oar or trim the sail on the waters of the Nith, 
the Sol way, and the Esk, were the chosen pursuits 
of his boyhood, while the majestic tops of Hel- 
vellyn and Skiddaw, visible from the porch of his 
father's cottage, and seeming in the dim distance 
like gigantic works of enchantment, filled his 
glowing imagination with visions of the world 
beyond them, and tempted him to venture forth 
in pursuit of experiences and adventures unat- 
tainable in his quiet home. 

Obedient to this rambling impulse, when only 



PAUL JONES. 15 

twelve years old he bade adieu to the peaceful 
garden in which his father toiled, and, going to 
Fairhaven, became the apprentice of a ship- 
owner who traded with the American Colonies. 
His first voyage was to Virginia in the Friendship, 
It was at this period that Paul displayed a 
degree of wisdom beyond his years, and very 
unusual in poor boys thrown so early upon their 
own resources. Though poorly educated at home, 
he now gave himself to the earnest study of nav- 
igation, and such other branches of knowledge as 
are necessary to success in sea-faring life. Whether 
aship or ashore he gave his spare hours to his 
books, and thus, while acquiring practical skill in 
working a ship, mastered the theory of his pro- 
fession, and unconsciously fitted himself intellect- 
ually for the remarkable career he was destined 
to pursue. Had he been content, as thousands 
of cabin-boys have been and still are, merely to 
moil at sailor's tasks, and to spend his idle hours 
listening to the veracious yarns of the forecastle, 
the world would never have heard of him as a 
patriotic hero, though, perchance, he might have 



1 6 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

annoyed it as smuggler, privateer, or piratical 
adventurer. 

Paul's apprenticeship was cut short by the fail- 
ure of his merchant-master, who rewarded him for 
his good conduct by canceling his indentures. 
But such had been the lad's progress in seaman- 
ship that, though not yet out of his teens, he at 
once obtained the position of third mate on board 
the slave-ship King George. A year or so later 
found him chief mate of another slave-ship. 
Three years of service in the horrible slave-trade 
filled him with such disgust that he threw up his 
position while in the port of Jamaica, in the West 
Indies, and took passage home in the brigantine 
John. During the voyage both the captain and 
mate of this vessel died of fever. Paul took the 
command, and guided her to her port in safety. 
His reward for this service was the command of 
the vessel on her next voyage. 

While on his second voyage in command of 
this brig, he met with the first serious misfortune 
of his life. His carpenter, Mungo Maxwell, was 
mutinous. Captain Jones ordered him to be 



PAUL JONES. 17 

flogged, and, when he reached port, discharged 
him. The man joined another ship, took the 
fever, and died. Envious tongues whispered that 
his death was the result of his flogging, and 
thereby stained the young captain's reputation 
with the charge of cruelty. The calumny stung 
•his sensitive soul deeply, and, for a time, lowered 
him greatly in the estimation of his friends. 

Paul continued in command of merchant- 
vessels in the West India trade until 1773. At 
this period, his brother William dying intestate in 
Virginia, he went thither to look after his estate. 
While there he concluded to abandon the sea and 
devote himself to an agricultural life. After 
spending two years in this peaceful pursuit, the 
war-cries of the Revolution awoke him from his 
dreams of a quiet life, stirred his adventurous 
spirit to its lowest depths, led him to espouse the 
patriotic cause with chivalric ardor, and to tender 
his services to the navy of his adopted country. 
Congress accepted his offer, gave him a first lieu- 
tenant's commission, and appointed him to the 
frigate Alfred, the flag-ship of the fleet which was 



1 8 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

being fitted out in the Delaware. On this ship 
he is said to have had the honor of hoisting the 
American flag for the first time with his own hands. 
Before entering the navy, Paul changed his 
name from John Paul to John Paul Jones. For 
making this change he never assigned any reason. 
Perhaps he did it to escape recognition as a 
British subject, should he chance to be captured 
during the war. Be this as it may, he became 
known in his twenty -ninth year as Lieutenant 
Jones of the American navy. To this height he 
had climbed by his own almost unaided force of 
character. There was little resemblance to the 
rough gardener's son, or to the coarse, untutored 
cabin-boy, in the agile, graceful, slender lieutenant 
who trod the quarter-deck of the Alfred with the 
thoughtful countenance and determined air of a 
man meditating deeds which should help the 
cause of liberty and cover his own name with the 
blaze of naval glory. The difference was great. 
Work, study, devotion to his chosen profession, 
were the instruments which had made the grand 
transformation. 



PAUL JONES. 19 

Paul Jones was no sooner afloat than he began 
to display the highest qualities of a naval officer. 
He gave inspiration to the commander of a 
squadron which captured one of the Bahama 
Islands. When placed in command of the sloop 
Providence, he made numerous prizes, and by 
adroit and daring maneuvers escaped being cap- 
tured by the British ships of vastly superior force 
which fell in with him. He so'on made it evident 
to the country that, for dash, daring, fruitfulness 
in resources, and skill in naval warfare, he had 
no equal in the service. Had Congress acted 
with the highest wisdom, it would have placed 
him at the head of its little navy. Instead 
of doing so, it put the favorites of colonial politi- 
cians over his head, denied him that seniority 
of rank which was his right, vexed him with 
promises of command it never fulfilled, and put 
his patriotism to such bitter tests as proved it to 
be genuine metal. 

At length, after many vexatious delays, Jones 
was placed in command of the Ranger, in June, 
1777. At the same time our present national flag 



20 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

was adopted, and by a singular coincidence the 
honor of hoisting the stars and stripes for the first 
time fell to Captain Jones, who, as you recollect, 
had first unfurled the original flag, emblazoned 
with a pine-tree and a serpent coiled beneath its 
branches. And it also fell to his lot, while in 
command of the Ranger, to claim and to receive 
from the French fleet the first salute ever fired by 
a foreign power to the flag of the United States. 

Jones sailed to France in the Ranger, which 
he soon made a terror to British merchant-ships 
passing through the English Channel, and to the 
inhabitants on its northerly coasts. We have 
only space to record one or two examples of his 
daring deeds. 

While cruising off the coast of Ireland, he 
learned that the Drake, a British sloop mounting 
twenty guns, was lying at anchor in Belfast Bay. 
He made the bold resolve to attempt her capture. 
His plan was to run into the harbor at night, lay 
the Ranger across her bows, so as to cover her 
decks with musketry, while his men boarded her. 
Accordingly, when it was dark, he concealed his 



PAUL JONES. 21 

lights, cleared his decks for action, prepared his 
grapnels, and armed his boarders with pistols and 
cutlasses. Favored by darkness, guided by a 
captured fishermen, and helped by a fresh breeze, 
he stood into the harbor, rounded to under the 
Drake's bow, and gave command to drop anchor. 
Unfortunately, the anchor hung for a minute or 
two, and when the Ranger brought up she was 
nearly half a cable's length from the bow of the 
sloop. 

What was to be done? Clearly nothing, unless 
he could get clear, sail out of the bay, return, 
and renew the daring attempt. Fortunately for 
Jones, the watch on the Drake mistook the Ran- 
ger for a merchantman, and gave no alarm. 
Hence he was able to cut his cable and get under 
way. But, unfortunately for his scheme, the wind 
suddenly freshened into so sharp a gale that it was 
with great difficulty he got out of the bay. By 
that time the sea ran so high that he was glad to 
seek and find shelter under the coast of Scotland. 

His next scheme, though creditable to his en- 
terprise, was eminently discreditable to his heart. 



22 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

It was an endeavor to burn a large fleet of per- 
haps two hundred and fifty merchantmen lying 
in the port of Whitehaven. Light winds hindered 
him from getting near the town until midnight. 
Then an ebb tide caused the two boats which he 
led on this errand of arson to move so slowly 
that it was daybreak before their crews reached 
the wharves. 

Nothing daunted by this mishap, Jones ordered 
his lieutenant to fire the ships on the north side 
of the pier, while he proceeded to capture two 
batteries, mounting thirty pieces of artillery, which 
commanded the port. Scaling the breastworks 
of the nearest battery, he captured the soldiers, 
who were sleeping cozily in the guard-house, and 
spiked the guns. He then rushed to the other 
battery, a quarter of a mile distant, and repeated 
his first success. Returning to the pier, he was 
vexed to find that his lieutenant had not fired the 
ships, alleging that "his light had gone out, and 
that nothing could be gained by burning poor 
people's property." The party left from his own 
boat's crew to fire the ships on the south of the 



PAUL JONES. 23 

pier had been equally neglectful of their task. 
Angry at being thwarted, he set fire to one large 
ship, and then, seeing the inhabitants gathering 
in large numbers, he reluctantly ordered the re- 
turn of his boats. But for his caution in spiking 
the battery guns, he would have been blown out 
of the water. As it was, he reached the Ranger 
in safety, while the people, recovering from their 
fright, busied themselves in preventing the fire 
from spreading beyond the burning ship. 

The motive of Jones in this adventure was to 
retaliate on the English for the raids and burnings 
of their naval commanders in America. No 
doubt he prided himself also at being able to 
beard the lion in its den./ But since one wrong- 
does not justify another, and since it is simple 
barbarism in war to destroy the property of non- 
combatants, we think this descent upon White- 
haven, though it was well planned and dashingly 
executed, is a black spot upon the character of 
its gallant leader. The only really good thing 
about it was its failure to achieve its object. 

The next feat of the restless Paul was to land 



24 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

a boat's crew on the Scottish coast, near the seat 
of the Earl of Selkirk. His intention was to carry 
off that nobleman, with a view of using him as an 
exchange for some important American prisoner. 
The Earl was saved from captivity by being absent 
from home; but Jones permitted his men to carry 
off the family plate. This was an act of brigand- 
age; but Jones subsequently wiped this spot from 
his reputation by purchasing the plate from his 
crew and returning it, with apologies, to Lady 
Selkirk. Nevertheless, the landing made Jones's 
name a terror along the coast of Scotland. 

Our hero did a grander deed when, a day or 
two later, he fought the Drake, which was seeking 
to capture the Ranger, The two vessels sighted 
each other off the port of Carrickfergus, toward 
the close of an April afternoon. The British ship 
was working out of the harbor with a light wind 
when the Ranger appeared in the channel. Her 
movement being slow, the Drake sent a boat to 
learn her character. Jones kept her stern toward 
the boat, so as to conceal her armament, and permit 
the officer to get on board, where he found himself a 



PAUL JONES. 25 

prisoner. The Ranger then ran toward the Drake, 
hauled up her courses, and waited for her foe to 
get into the mid-channel. Presently the English- 
man got near enough to hail, and inquire what 
ship it was. Jones told his sailing-master to reply : 

"The American Continental ship Ranger, We 
are waiting for you. Come on!" 

The action was commenced by Jones, who 
ran his ship across the bows of his opponent, and 
poured a broadside along her decks. The Drake 
gallantly returned the dreadful compliment, as 
quickly as she gained a like position. Both ves- 
sels then came to close quarters, running side by 
side, fighting with equal courage for upwards of 
an hour. Then a musket-ball pierced the skull 
of the British commander. His first lieutenant 
also fell, mortally wounded, and the crew, seeing 
their ship was almost disabled, cried for quarter. 
The proud flag of old England was lowered be- 
fore the stars and stripes, and the Drake became 
the prize of the resolute Paul Jones, who, after 
hastily refitting both vessels, proudly carried her 
into Brest. 



26 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

This was a brilliant action. The Drake car- 
ried two more guns than the Ranger, and a crew 
twice as large. She was also better equipped in 
every respect. The capture covered Paul Jones 
with the glory which crowns the heads of success- 
ful brave men. The French praised him, Frank- 
lin honored him with his friendship, and the 
patriots in America spoke of him with enthusiasm. 

But notwithstanding the halo of his exploits, 
Jones, like many other naval and military heroes, 
found his career blocked by a multitude of diffi- 
culties. There was discord among his crew with 
respect to prize-money, envy in the breasts of 
some of his officers, negligence or inability on the 
part of Congress to supply him with funds, and 
differences of opinion among our naval authorities 
concerning his future employment. These, with 
other causes, kept him idle several months, during 
which time he was like an impatient steed chafing 
under the bit. 

At length his reputation and persistence con- 
quered. He obtained the command of a French 
ship, which he named the Poor Richard. She 



PAUL JONES. 27 

carried forty guns, and sailed under the American 
flag. But she was old, half rotten, and most 
wretchedly equipped in every respect. Moreover, 
her crew was made up of men of many national- 
ities, and almost wholly lacking in that esprit de 
corps which is generally considered indispensable 
to marked success in war, either on land or sea. 

But Jones, whose confidence in his own good 
fortune was boundless, was willing to risk his life 
and reputation upon her quarter-deck. Being 
made commodore over a small squadron, consist- 
ing of seven sail, including two privateers, he 
put to sea on the 14th of August, 1779. . 

After threatening a descent on Leith, which 

failed only because of violent weather, he finally 

Li 
fell in with a fleet of British merchantmen, con- 
voyed by two men-of-war, off Flamborough Head. 
He then had with him the Richard, the Alliance, 
the Pallas, and the Vengeance. Had all the com- 
manders of these ships shared his courage and 
spirit, he would have won an easy victory over 
his antagonists, the Serapis and the Countess of 
Scarborough. But the captain of the Alliance was 



28 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

a cowardly traitor, and, as we shall see, actually 
helped the enemy, while the Vengeance took no 
part in the action. The Pallas, however, gal- 
lantly engaged and captured the Scarborough, 
while Jones, in his miserable flag-ship, fought the 
Serapis with a desperate courage scarcely paral- 
leled in the history of naval warfare. 

It was four o'clock on a lovely September 
afternoon when the combatants sighted each other. 
The wind being light, it was half-past seven before 
the Richard and the Serapis came near enough 
together to commence fighting. A full harvest 
moon, however, gave light enough for the com- 
batants to engage, and to make the deadly strife 
visible to the thousands of spectators who crowded 
the neighboring shores and headlands. 

When the Serapis was near enough to hail the 
Richard, Captain Pearson, her commander, shouted : 

"What ship is that?" 

"I can't hear what you say," was the Richard's 
response. 

"What ship is that? Answer immediately, or 
I shall fire into you," rejoined Pearson. 



PAUL JONES. 29 

The Richard's answer was a single shot, fol- 
lowed by a broadside, which was instantly replied 
to by a broadside from the Serapis. 

The Richard's fire was more disastrous to her 
own crew than to the enemy. Three guns on her 
lower deck burst, causing an awful carnage in the 
gun-room. 

" Close the lower-deck ports, and abandon that 
battery," was Jones's order, coolly given, when he 
was informed of this ill-omened disaster. 

The ships then passed each other; the Richard 
crossed the bows of the Serapis; the latter luffed, 
and came up across the quarter of the former. 
Several broadsides were exchanged. Both cap- 
tains maneuvered to secure a raking position, 
when the Richard ran so close to the larboard 
quarter of her foe that neither ship could use her 
great guns. Jones then ordered his men to board. 
They made the attempt, but were driven back 
with loss. Seeing their recoil, Captain Pearson 
shouted : 

"Has your ship struck?" 

"I have not yet begun to fight," was the 



30 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

prompt, characteristic reply of the imperturbable 
Jones. 

The ships parted, but soon came up side by 
side again, and exchanged broadsides. Seeing 
that his ship and crew were suffering severely 
from the enemy's superior weight of metal, Jones 
maneuvered to bring her across her enemy's bows. 
Then the Richard fell foul of the Serapis, and the 
two vessels lay side by side so closely that the 
muzzles of their guns touched each other. 

"Pass up a hawser, and lash the ships to- 
gether," shouted Jones to the master of his vessel. 

While his men were hastening to obey this 
order, Jones with his own hands helped to make 
fast the jib-stay of the Serapis to the mizzen-mast 
of his own ship. At the same moment the anchor 
of the Serapis hooked the quarter of the Richard. 
The ships were thus effectually grappled to one 
another. 

Again the fearful fight went on at such close 
quarters that the ramrods entered the port-holes 
of the opposite ship as the men used them in 
loading the guns. Every shot from either side 



PAUL JONES. 31 

swept the open deck or sunk into the timbers of 
her opponent. The effects were fearful, and when 
the men on one ship fired, those on the other were 
driven from their guns. Pikes and pistols were 
also brought into requisition, though without any 
combined attempt at boarding during this stage 
of the action. 

An hour and a half of fighting had passed. 
The Richard was leaking badly. Many of her 
guns had been silenced, many of her crew killed 
and \a ounded. It seemed as if her destiny was 
sealed. Her chances of success were soon after 
greatly diminished by the dastardly, treacherous 
conduct of her consort, the Alliance. Actuated, 

as is supposed, by a desire to sink the Richard, 

L 
that he might himself capture the Serapis, her 

contemptible commander bore down upon her and 

delivered several raking fires upon her quarter. 

Such unnatural treachery was sufficient to justify 

a surrender to the enemy; but Jones fought on 

undismayed. He could go down with his flag. 

Lower it to an enemy was a deed he could not do. 

At last every gun but three was silenced on 



32 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

board the Richard, while the whole lower-deck bat- 
tery of the Serapis was still belching forth fire and 
death. Jones then took personal direction of his 
last three guns. One of them he loaded with 
double shot, and fired it steadily at the enemy's 
main-mast; the others, loaded with grape and 
canister, swept her deck. He stationed marks- 
men on his tops, who, after driving the crew 
from the tops of the Serapis, wrought fearful 
havoc among the officers and men upon her 
decks. He also ordered hand-grenades to be 
thrown into her, and thus set her on fire in many 
places, and kept many of her men busy extin- 
guishing the flames. One of these grenades 
finally fell upon the main deck of the Serapis and 
exploded several cartridges, killing twenty men, 
and disabling a larger number. 

The Richard now appeared to be sinking. 
Her gunner, terrified at the thought of going 
down alive, ran to haul down her ensign. Find- 
ing its staff had been shot away, he shouted: 

"Quarter! for 's sake, quarter! Our ship 

is sinking." 



PAUL JONES. 33 

Hearing this shriek of despair, Jones threw a 
pistol at the terror-stricken man, fracturing his 
skull, and sending him headlong down the 
hatchway. 

Captain Pearson also heard the gunner's cry, 
and shouted to Jones, from the deck of the 
Serapis : 

66 Do you call for quarter?" 

"No!" responded Jones, in tones so deter- 
mined as to leave no room for doubt as to his 
purpose not to surrender. 

Pearson then ordered his boarders to cross into 
the Richard. They made the attempt, but were 
met so resolutely by a party of pikemen led by 
Jones that they recoiled. 

Another mishap now occurred to Paul Jones. 
His master's mate, thinking that the Richard must 
speedily sink, set free about one hundred prisoners 
of war which had been captured during her 
cruise. One of these, passing on board the 
Serapis, reported that the Richard must very soon 
strike or sink. Encouraged by this information, 
Pearson vigorously renewed the battle. But the 

3 



34 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

undaunted Jones fought on, ordering the freed 
prisoners to the pumps and using his three quar- 
ter-deck guns with such terrible energy and fear- 
ful precision that at half-past ten o'clock the Ser- 
apis hauled down her flag! 

So destructive had been the fire of the con- 
quered ship that the victorious Richard was lit- 
erally a wreck when the enemy yielded. Jones 
did his utmost to carry her into port. But she 
was too much damaged to be saved, and, within 
thirty-six hours after her last battle, she went 
down, bows first. "Her shattered shell afforded 
an honorable receptacle for the remains of the 
Americans who had fallen during the action." 

No braver or more resolute combat had ever 
been fought on the ocean than this. The victory 
was won by the naval skill, the indomitable cour- 
age, the unyielding spirit of Paul Jones. It gave 
his name an unquestionable right to a high place 
among naval heroes. It made him the hero of 
the hour in Europe and in America. 

But Jones found the pinnacle of fame any 
thing but a couch of roses. Owing to the orders 



PAUL JONES. 35 

under which he sailed, and to the mutinous, envi- 
ous spirit of the Captain of the Alliance, he was 
compelled to carry his prizes to the Texel. There 
he was blockaded by a British fleet and har- 
assed by the Dutch authorities for three months. 
Finally, having shifted his flag to the Alliance, he 
ran out of port, baffled the English cruisers, and 
made his way to L'Orient, where he landed in 
poor health and in much vexation of spirit. 

After many delays in France, Jones sailed for 
America in the Ariel. On this voyage he met and 
fought a British ship of war, supposed to be a pri- 
vateer. This ship struck her flag to him, but 
managed to get before the wind and to escape 
while he was preparing to board her. 

Our hero received many honors for his prow- 
ess. The King of France presented him with a 
sword and made him a knight of the Order of 
Military Merit. Congress, on his arrival home, 
passed resolutions commendatory of his exploits. 
Washington wrote him a highly complimentary 
letter. His rank was also restored to him by his 
appointment to the command of a ship of the 



36 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

line which was then in course of construction. 
These were among his pleasant things. Never- 
theless, his impatient soul was constantly fretted 
by delays which prevented him from getting into 
actual sea service until peace came; and then his 
path to naval glory was effectually blocked up. 

Still restless and longing for the fray he ob- 
tained permission to sail, as a volunteer, in a 
French fleet bound to the West Indies. On the 
voyage his skill and demeanor won applause, but 
the glad tidings of a general peace cut him off 
from the opportunity of displaying his qualities in 
the hour of battle. He returned to America in 
ill health. On his recovery he was sent to France 
to secure payment of certain prize-money due to 
him and his crews, a mission which he finally 
accomplished, but only after many tedious delays. 
His next service was under the Russian flag 
against the Turks. He held a commission from 
the Empress of Russia as Rear-Admiral. He 
fought with his usual daring, but his success was 
limited, owing to the interference and jealousy of 
Russian officers. His resentment of this med- 



PAUL JONES. 37 

dling, imprudently expressed, led to his recall. 
He had then reached the end of that path to 
naval glory which was his heart's idol. 

The short remainder of his brief life was spent 
in planning expeditions which were never execu- 
ted, in seeking naval employment which he never 
found, in receiving attentions from the courts of 
Denmark and France, in settling-prize money 
questions, and in correspondence. He died in 
Paris July 18, 1792. Having made his will about 
eight o'clock that evening, his friends left him 
seated in his arm-chair, the victim of a fatal 
dropsy and liver complaint. Shortly after, he was 
found by his physician lying dead with his face 
on the bed and his feet on the floor. 

Paul Jones certainly won a proud pre-eminence 
in his chosen profession. The laurel of a world- 
wide reputation wreathed his ambitious brow. 
Starting in life a poor, self-dependent cabin boy, 
he died a captain in the American navy, a Rus- 
sian rear-admiral, and a knight of the French 
Order of Merit. He had been praised by kings, 
queens, and patriots. Our Congress had honored 



38 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

him by special resolutions and by ordering a gold 
medal to commemorate his exploits. These were 
splendid victories over untoward circumstances 
which no youth can look upon but with admi- 
ration. Nevertheless, when viewed with respect 
to its true ends, the life of Paul Jones was a fail- 
ure, in that it did not bring him the crown of 
spiritual development and moral self-mastery. 

Paul's biographers compel us to the conviction 
that earthly ambition was his chief aim in life. 
Human praise for daring deeds of war was the 
glory he sought. It was his ruling passion. For 
the approval of his Maker and Judge he cared 
nothing. His life centered in himself, not in 
God. Hence he lived selfishly, impurely, luxuri- 
ously, querulously, restlessly, discontentedly, and, 
as a consequence, unhappily. He had genius, 
courage, perseverance, but very little affection. 
He was not wholly without sympathy, but that 
unselfish love which wins the love of others he 
did not possess. Even his sailors, who, as a 
class, generally idolize their heroes, did not love 
him, but were ever ready to mutiny against him. 



PAUL JONES. 39 

Nor did they confide very strongly in his integ- 
rity. Therefore it came to pass that, with all the 
brilliancy of his reputation, Paul Jones failed to 
win either that sweetest of earthly pleasures, the 
self-devoted love of his associates, or that still 
higher, nobler joy, the fellowship of his Maker 
and the consolation of the Divine Comforter. Of 
what real value, then, was the perishing laurel, 
the short-lived glory, the unsatisfactory honor 
which he won ? He was never vanquished in the 
field of mortal strife, but in the moral arena he 
was overcome by selfishness, pride, ambition, lust, 
greed of gold, and passion. He won the corrup- 
tible crown of human fame, but that incorruptible 
"crown which fadeth not away" he did not seek, 
and therefore did not win. While therefore his 
career may stimulate the reader to do his best in 
his chosen profession, his moral failure gives a 
fearful pertinence to the divine inquiry, What 
shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world 
and lose his own soul? 



II. 



AARON BURR, 
8ti* WLn$xirtii$lzb UtimQtx zxtis ^olftutarr. 



fjfEARLY sixty years ago the celebrated 
I Henry Clay was a casual visitor at the 
United States Court -room, in the city 
of New York. The distinguished orator 
became at once the cynosure of every eye. The 
judges invited him to a seat on the bench. He 
modestly declined the honor, and sat down with 
the lawyers, within the bar. Among these was a 
small old gentleman, with dark, penetrating eyes, 
bushy gray hair, and very courteous manners. 
This man went up to the great statesman with 
outstretched hands. For a moment Mr. Clay 

looked askance at the courtly lawyer, and then, 
40 



AARON BURR. 41 

suddenly recollecting him, refused to accept his 
proffered hand. Nothing abashed, the old lawyer 
proceeded to open a conversation, but, eliciting 
only cold replies from Mr. Clay, finally expressed 
a desire for an hour's private interview. "I stop 
at ," replied the statesman, stiffly. The law- 
yer, it hardly needs be added, made no call on the 
Kentucky orator. 

Henry Clay was not the only man who cut 
this old gentleman. There were few men of 
standing in New York who would recognize him, 
even on the street. It was his habit to glance 
under his eyelids at his acquaintances as they ap- 
proached him, to ascertain whether they intended 
to speak to him or not. If their manner indi- 
cated an intention to cut him, as was the case 
generally, he would refuse them the opportunity 
by looking another way. So great was the load 
of infamy which rested on this old man's shoul- 
ders that, although he ranked in ability among 
the foremost members of the New York bar, and 
had once been Vice-President, and almost Presi- 
dent, of the United States, very few persons 



42 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

dared associate with him, or were willing to 
accord him social recognition. He was an ostra- 
cized man. 

His name was Aaron Burr. His infamy had 
grown out of two facts. He had slain Alexander 
Hamilton in a duel; and he had meditated, 
planned, and taken measures to execute, a trea- 
sonable scheme for dividing these United States. 
His hand was stained with blood. His heart was 
black with the dye of treason. Most men re- 
garded him as an unprincipled, dangerous man, 
and avoided him as they would a leper. His 
great obloquy was the reeking exudation of his 
own character and conduct. 

To sketch the career of this splendid sinner 
especially to point out the causes which counter- 
acted the good influences which surrounded his 
early life and made him a bad man, is the object 
of this sketch. 

Aaron Burr inherited good blood. He came 
of better than coroneted ancestors. His father was 
a distinguished preacher and teacher, the founder 
and first President of Princeton College, N. J. 



AARON BURR. 43 

His mother was the third daughter of the great 
and good Jonathan Edwards. Her name was 
Esther. She met Dr. Burr at Stockbridge, Con- 
necticut, where her celebrated father preached to 
the Indians, after being driven by the clamors of 
his people from his pulpit in Northampton. For 
three days the courtly Doctor watched her nimble, 
graceful fingers as they traced the beautiful figures 
she drew on fans intended for sale in Boston, to 
eke out a stinted support. But her mature mind 
and beautiful character charmed him still more 
than the elegant work wrought by her fingers. 
The attraction was mutual. It must have been 
strong too; for, during those three days, they be- 
came engaged. Two weeks later, under the pro- 
tection of a student sent to Stockbridge by the 
good Doctor, Esther, accompanied by her mother, 
journeyed to Newark, New Jersey, where she was 
married, June 29, 1752. This brief patriarchal 
courtship and marriage, unlike most hasty matches, 
resulted very happily. Its fruit was a daughter, 
named Sarah, and Aaron, the subject of this 
sketch, who was born February 6, 1756. 



44 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

It was young Aaron's misfortune to lose both 
father and mother when he was not yet three 
years old. His grand-parents died soon after, so 
that he was an orphan indeed at a very early age. 
The magnitude of this loss, and its influence on 
his subsequent character and destiny, can not, of 
course, be estimated. Had one or both of his 
parents been spared to train him, he might have 
been a better man, and have escaped the obloquy 
which rests upon his name. At thirteen months, 
his mother described him in her diary as " noisy, 
sly, mischievous, very resolute/' and "not so 
good tempered" as his sister. Here we have the 
germs of that sensitiveness, cunning, and strength 
of self-will which characterized him in after years. 
Even parental training, which, though mighty, is 
far from omnipotent, might have failed to eradi- 
cate or rightly direct these dangerous qualities. 

Little Aaron and his sister were brought up in 
the home of their maternal uncle, Timothy Ed- 
wards, at Elizabethtown, New T Jersey. Though 
orphans, they were not poor. They were heirs 
to a very considerable estate left by Dr. Burr. 



AARON BURR. 45 

They were very strictly trained, and so carefully 
educated that Aaron was prepared to enter college 
at eleven. He actually did enter the Sophomore 
Class at Princeton when he was thirteen, and 
graduated with distinction at sixteen. He was 
certainly a very precocious lad, of more than 
ordinary intellectual powers. 

Up to the time of his graduation it does not 
appear that his life was disfigured by any low 
vices. That he was uncommonly strong-willed 
is shown by the fact that, twice during his child- 
hood, he ran away from his uncle's hearth-side, 
but was speedily followed and taken back. Dur- 
ing his first year in college, finding afternoon 
study to be more difficult than morning applica- 
tion, it occurred to him that eating too much was 
the cause. With great resolution, he " became 
very abstemious^" and thereby acquired power to 
study sixteen and eighteen hours a day. But 
when he found himself able to keep up with his 
classmates without making such extravagant exer- 
tions, he became less a student and more of an 
idler among books. Yet he continued his abstem- 



46 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

ious habits, and, though he indulged freely in 
such amusements as the then secluded village of 
Princeton afforded, there is no proof that he was 
distinguished above other irreligious students for 
evil doings. 

During the last year of his college life, he did 
a deed which had a powerful influence over his 
character and future career. A revival of great 
intensity brought the great body of the students 
face to face with the question of their personal 
salvation. It was a day of sweet and merciful 
visitation. Many of the students heard and 
obeyed the call of the Spirit; but young Burr 
refused to listen. His relationship, as grandson 
of that great revivalist and eminent Christian, 
Jonathan Edwards, and as the son of the de- 
voted founder of the College, caused him to be 
regarded by professors and students with especial 
interest. They prayed for him, pleaded with him, 
did, in short, all that Christian love could suggest. 
Nor were their efforts wholly without effect. 
Burr's heart was moved. His conscience was 
disturbed. Up to this time he had never ques- 



AARON BURR. 47 

tioned the truths which had been so precious to 
his mother, who had consecrated him to Christ in 
his infancy; so earnestly preached by his father 
and grandfather, and so constantly taught him by 
his uncle and his tutors. He clearly compre- 
hended his duty. But when his friends pressed 
him to decide for Christ, his corrupt heart re- 
belled. His taste ruled his heart, and fixed his 
attention upon the excitement and the unusual 
methods incident to a revival, until he recoiled 
from them with that disgust which awakened 
sinners always affect toward the means which dis- 
turb their consciences. 

While his mind was swaying to and fro be- 
tween his convictions and his offended taste, he, 
unfortunately for himself, consulted Dr. Wither- 
spoon, President of the College. That good but 
mistaken man^ who did not sympathize with re- 
vivals, condemned the prevailing excitement as 
fanatical. That false judgment, thrown into the 
scale on the side of young Burr's corrupt heart, 
was ruinously decisive. By strengthening his prej- 
udices, it paralyzed his convictions, and enabled 



48 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

him henceforth to despise the call of the Spirit. 
Alas, that a learned clergyman should have given 
a judgment so fatal to such a youth as young 
Burr! Had 1 he urged the young man to give 
himself to Christ, the name of Aaron Burr might 
have been written with the great luminaries of the 
Christian faith, instead of standing, as it does, on 
the roll of notorious sinners and traitors. The 
Doctor wrought great evil in an immortal soul 
when he gave that unhappy opinion. Yet who 
dare say that Aaron Burr, despite the counsel he 
courted, had not grace and light sufficient to 
guide him to a better choice? 

The depth of young Burr's religious convic- 
tions is shown by the fact that, although he spent 
some months after his graduation in literary idle- 
ness, in flirting with young ladies, in boating, 
and other amusements, he could not succeed in 
quieting his conscience. The arrow of truth had 
sunk deep into his soul. Unfortunately, he had 
by this time become acquainted with the deistical 
opinions then so prevalent and popular in Europe. 
These ideas, and a secret desire to rid himself of 



AARON BURR. 49 

his uneasy feelings, led him to question the truth 
of the theology in which he had been educated. 
To satisfy himself respecting it, he entered the 
home of Dr. Bellamy, a devoted friend of his late 
father and a celebrated teacher of theology, in 
Connecticut. With that good man he spent six 
months, diligently reading and earnestly disputing 
on theological questions. 

Unhappily, Dr. Bellamy was a rigid Calvinist. 
The rugged features of that hard, unscriptural 
theology increased young Burr's repugnance to 
experimental religion. The Doctor utterly failed 
to make it appear reasonable to his pupil's logical 
mind. In rejecting it, Burr, unfortunately, also 
cast away the Gospel, which it so sadly misrepre- 
sents. This was a natural result for one in his 
state of feeling. It is pretty evident that he was 
more anxious to rid himself of his convictions, by 
impeaching the theories out of which they sprang, 
than to find out the actual truth. When, there- 
fore, he saw the truth clothed in the " horrible" 
garb of Calvinism, instead of discriminating be- 
tween it and its human dress, he recoiled from it 

4 



50 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

altogether. Had he entered upon its pursuit in 
the spirit of a little child, the result would prob- 
ably have been vastly different. 

Burr's rejection of the Gospel appears to have 
been decisive and final. He "came to the con- 
clusion that the road to heaven was open to all 
alike, " and there he rested, obstinately refusing, 
to the day of his death, to reconsider his deliber- 
ate purpose not to receive the Gospel of Jesus 
Christ. He would not be a Christian, but a man 
self-molded into a gentleman, after the pattern of 
Chesterfield, and other worldlings of his time. 
There is no evidence that his religious convictions 
ever troubled him after this fatal choice. Having 
deliberately chosen " the way that • seemed right " 
to his evil heart, he was suffered to walk in it to 
the bitter, bitter end, undisturbed by the Holy 
Spirit of God, which he had so daringly grieved. 

After quitting the home of Dr. Bellamy, young 
Burr began the study of law with his brother-in- 
law, Judge Reeve, at Litchfield, Connecticut. 
While thus employed, the report of the battles of 
Lexington and Bunker Hill stirred his youthful 



AARON BURR. 51 

blood, and led him to throw aside his law-books, 
and to offer his services as a gentleman volunteer 
in Washington's army at Cambridge. Eager for 
active and dangerous enterprises, he soon after 
joined Arnold's famous expedition to Quebec, 
and, though a mere stripling in form, he endured 
the hardships of its perilous march as well as the 
hardiest backwoodsman of the party. Disguised 
as a Catholic priest, he passed through the forests 
of Canada to Montreal, and opened communica- 
tions between the forces of Arnold and Montgom- 
ery. As aid to the latter, he fought with chivalric 
bravery in the unfortunate assault on Quebec. 
After the death of Montgomery, disliking Arnold, 
he left Canada, became aid, first to Washington, 
and then to Putnam at New York. He took 
honorable part in the battle of Long Island. 
Appointed lieutenant-colonel of a New Jersey 
regiment, he did service at the battle of Mon- 
mouth, at Valley Forge, and in guarding the 
Westchester lines. After four years, ill health, 
caused by exposure and over-exertion, compelled 
him to quit the army, in which he had won such 



52 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

a splendid reputation for high soldierly qualities 
as to make it quite probable, that, had he been 
favored by circumstances, he would have proved 
himself equal, at least, to the best generals of the 
Revolution. 

To illustrate the spirit of our young soldier, 
we select one incident of his military career. 
During the memorable Winter of suffering spent 
by our army at Valley Forge, Burr was placed in 
command of the militia, at a pass called the Gulf, 
by which the British menaced the patriot quar- 
ters. Before he took command, false alarms, 
owing to bad discipline, had been frequent and 
annoying. By his vigorous attention to discipline 
and drill, things soon wore a different aspect. 
But some of the soldiers, long accustomed to 
camp idleness, and freedom from military re- 
straint, became restive and even mutinous. At 
length, several of these bad fellows resolved to 
shoot Burr at an evening parade. His watchful- 
ness detected the plot, and he contrived to secure 
the unloading of their muskets. Armed with a 
sharp saber, he walked along the line, keenly 



AARON BURR. 53 

watching every movement of the men. Presently 
a soldier stepped from the ranks, leveled his mus- 
ket at Burr, and cried: "Now is your time, my 
boys!" 

The words had scarcely left the fellow's lips, 
before Burr's saber flashed in* the moonbeams, 
and cut the mutineer's arm nearly off above the 
elbow. At the same time Burr, with the ut- 
most calmness, said: "Take your place in the 
line, sir!" 

The astonished mutineer obeyed, and, after 
the parade ended, was taken to the surgeon, who 
completed the amputation of his arm. The mu- 
tiny was quelled, rigid discipline established, and 
no more false alarms were given while Burr 
remained in command. 

Such resolution, quickness, self-possession, 
bravery, and v unscrupulousness as he here dis- 
played, when combined, as they were in him, 
with incessant activity, military instinct, sagacity, 
and foresight, make their possessors successful 
generals. 

But though nature apparently intended this 



54 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

man to be a great soldier, his circumstances and 
tastes guided him to the bar. After quitting the 
army, with health and fortune impaired, the latter 
by thoughtless bountifulness to his men and to his 
friends, he resumed the study of the law, and in 
1782 was admitted to the bar in Albany. He 
was married very shortly after to an accomplished 
widow, Mrs. Theodosia Prevost. 

His success at the bar in Albany was immedi- 
ate and decided. When the British army evacu- 
ated New York, in the Autumn of 1783, he 
removed to that city, where he took his place at 
once beside Hamilton as one of the leaders of the 
bar, and where, for the next twenty years, he 
enjoyed a very lucrative practice. It is said that 
he never lost a case which he conducted in per- 
son. But, notwithstanding his marked success, 
he never ranked with lofty-toned lawyers of the 
very highest class. The practice, not the principles, 
of law was his forte. To win his cause by any 
allowable means, and whether it were right or 
wrong, was his great object. His cynical defini- 
tion of law — "law is whatever is boldly asserted 



AARON BURR. 55 

and plausibly maintained" — found full exemplifi- 
cation in his practice. His weapons were, un- 
equaled tact, self-possession which nothing could 
disturb, a courtly manner, the known or sus- 
pected weaknesses of judge and jurymen, clear, 
plausible statement, quiet sarcasm, vigorous assault 
on the weak points in the opposing counsel's 
argument, and, not unfrequently, some telling 
ruse. To these weapons he always added such a 
thorough understanding of every point in his case, 
as made it impossible to take him by surprise. 
Thus qualified and armed, he was without a peer 
as a mere practitioner at the bar. 

An illustration of his ability to enact a scene 
for effect is given by Mr. Parton, one of his 
recent biographers. He was defending a man 
charged with murder. The testimony led faim to 
think that the real criminal was the chief witness 
against the accused. After Hamilton, who was 
leading counsel in the case, had made his plea 
for the prisoner, the court adjourned, with the 
intention of hearing Mr. Burros concluding plea 
in the evening. In the interval, Burr instructed 



56 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

some one to provide an extra number of candles, 
and so to arrange them that their light should fall 
strongly upon a pillar against which the suspected 
witness had leaned throughout the trial. The 
court reassembled, the witness took his old place, 
and Burr proceeded to show that the testimony 
bore, not against the prisoner, but against the 
witness. When near the close of his argument, 
he seized two candlesticks, held them up so that 
the light threw a strong glare upon the face of 
the witness, and exclaimed: "Behold the mur- 
derer, gentlemen I" 

Every eye turned toward the witness, whose 
face, always singularly ugly, and wearing a down, 
guilty look, now appeared ghostly white. The 
horror-struck wretch shrunk back behind the 
pillar and left the room. The prisoner was 
acquitted. A ruse accomplished what argument 
might have failed to do. 

Burr's devotion of his brilliant talents to the 
bar brought him much money and social distinc- 
tion. The former he spent with princely but un- 
wise prodigality. For several years his domestic 



AARON BURR. 57 

life appears to have been quite charming, and his 
mansion at Richmond Hill was tl^ resort of many 
distinguished persons, both foreigners and citi- 
zens. His talents and skill in intrigue very early 
attracted the attention of political men. He was 
elected to the Legislature of New York in 1784. 
Five years after, he was appointed Attorney-Gen- 
eral of the State by Governor Clinton. In 1791 
he was elected to the United States Senate, and 
in 1 80 1 he became Vice-President. 

This was marvelous success, and seems more 
like the wonders of a fairy tale than veritable 
fact. It must be attributed partly to favoring cir- 
cumstances, but chiefly to his inimitable but un- 
scrupulous tact in political management. It was, 
no doubt, his leadership which overthrew the old 
Federalists, and led the liberal, or Republican, 
party to its first victory. 

But the leaves of his political laurels exuded 
poisons which speedily produced his political 
death. His too brilliant success not only made 
him the butt of the burning arrows shot at him 
without pity by the defeated Federalists, but also 



58 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

of the more dangerous shafts of envious jealousy 
thrown at him fcy the leaders of the party which 
owed its ascendency to his leadership. More- 
over, the unscrupulous political methods, the x se- 
cretiveness, the wondrous foresight, the unsur- 
passed executive abilities, of Burr, and his great 
personal power over men, had made many of his 
own party suspicious of him. His character had 
forced upon them the conviction that he was an 
ambitious man, without principles, 

"A serpent's egg, 
Which, hatched, would, as his kind, grow mischievous;" 

and, therefore, a dangerous man, not to be trusted 
too far. Among the great leaders who doubted 
his patriotism were Jefferson, then President, the 
Clintons, the Livingstons, and other men power- 
ful in the political circles of that day. Their 
opposition so divided the Republican party, with 
respect to Burr, as to deprive him of all hope 
of gaining its united support as Vice-President 
for a second term. Seeing his way to further 
distinction in National politics thus blocked by the 
leaders of his own party, he became a candidate, 



AARON BURR. 59 

in 1 804, for Governor of New York. But his 
popularity had now seriously waned, and he was 
badly defeated. 

Burr's defeat in the political arena was followed 
by a tragic event which threw a baleful shadow 
upon his future. During the contest a letter, 
written by a Dr. Cooper, in which General Ham- 
ilton was quoted as having spoken in strong terms 
against Mr. Burr, was published in the news- 
papers. This letter was shown to Burr six weeks 
after the election. It stung him to the quick. 
He knew that, for many years, Hamilton had 
been pursuing him in the most vindictive spirit. 
He now resolved to call him to account for his 
vituperation. He demanded an explanation of 
the grounds of Dr. Cooper's allegations. Hamil- 
ton declined to make it. Burr, unrestrained by 
religious obligations, challenged him. Hamilton, 
though conscious that duelling was an unchristian 
practice, lacked the moral courage to refuse the 
challenge. He agreed to fight his rival at 
Weehawken. 

Accordingly, on the morning of the nth of 



60 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

July, 1804, these two men, with their seconds, 
stood face to face on a ledge of rock about 
twenty feet above the shore of the Hudson. 

Their pistols were loaded in their presence. 
They were placed ten paces apart. The seconds 
withdrew. 

"Are you ready?" asked one of them. 

The combatants both replied : 

"Yes." 

"Fire!" cried the second. 

Burr raised his pistol, aimed, and fired. The 
next moment Hamilton sprang upon his toes, 
reeled, discharged his pistol — involuntarily, his 
friends asserted ; designedly, Burr's friends in- 
sisted — and then fell forward upon his face. He 
was mortally wounded. 

Burr and his seconds left the horrible spot at 
once. Hamilton was borne to his barge by his 
friends, and died the next afternoon. 

The agitation of the public mind was tremen- 
dous, and it soon concentrated itself into a fearful 
burst of indignation against Burr. A coroner's 
jury found a verdict of murder against him, and, 



AARON BURR. 6l 

for a time, he was compelled to become a fugitive 
from the popular indignation. But, although the 
stain of blood was upon his hands, the torpor of 
his conscience was so deadly that he seemed un- 
conscious of guilt. He journeyed South, where 
a duelist was honorably regarded, and was treated 
with all the respect which a Vice-President had 
reason to expect, or a distinguished man could 
desire. 

On reaching Washington, toward the end of 
the year, to preside over the Senate during the 
last session of his term of office, he ridiculed the 
projects which had been set afoot for getting pos- 
session of his person, that he might be tried for 
murder in New York. He knew that there was 
no probability that he would be convicted, in that 
dueling age, if tried. He ought to have known 
that, in every age, the man who kills his neighbor 
in a duel is held to be a murderer in the court 
of heaven, and that, without repentance, he can 
have no place in the kingdom of God. 

The state of popular feeling, and his insolvent 
condition pecuniarily, rendering it impossible for 



62 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

Burr to return to New York after the close of his 
term of office, he traveled South. Honors, ban- 
quets, and hospitality met him every-where. 

Then his restless, ambitious brain conceived a 
project for the conquest of Mexico, in case of war 
with Spain, which, just then, seemed imminent. 
As a step in this direction, he bought a large tract 
of land on the Washita River, and proceeded to 
organize a band of men on Blennerhassett's Island, 
in the Ohio, to settle upon it. These men were 
to become the nucleus of the army which was to 
place him on the throne of the Montezumas. His 
enemies charged that he intended, after conquer- 
ing Mexico, to annex the Southern States to it, 
and form a grand empire. This he and his friends 
denied. His highest aim, he said, was the crown 
of Mexico. But he was arrested, tried for treason 
at Richmond, and, as no overt act of levying war 
could be proved, was acquitted. Nevertheless, 
the suspicion that he intended treason remained, 
whether justly or unjustly is uncertain, and he 
became a man to be suspected and avoided. His 
"vaulting ambition had o'erleaped itself." 






AARON BURR. 63 

His Fortune broken and his hopes blasted at 
home, Burr, in 1808, became a self-exiled man. 
After four years of adventurous wandering in 
Europe, he returned to America in 181 2. His 
old reputation as a lawyer enabled him to recover 
a profitable practice at the New York bar; but 
socially he remained an ostracized man to the day 
of his death, in 1836. A few friends adhered to 
him, but most men avoided him. His first wife 
had long been dead. His only daughter, Theo- 
dosia, had perished at sea. His only grandchild 
was also dead. From Madame Jumel, his second 
wife, he was legally separated. Alone, almost 
unfriended by man, and alienated from God by 
his unbelief, his impurity of life, and his pride, 
this old man tottered beneath his accumulated 
burdens, until he was fourscore years of age, 
when he died, lamented by few, and filled an 
unhonored grave. 

Few men have been more highly endowed by 
nature than was Aaron Burr. He had an im- 
perial mind. His executive ability was of the 
highest order. He was born to sway the wills 



64 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

of men, as his brilliant success in the army, in 
society, at the bar, and in political life, abun- 
dantly proves. Why, then, was his life such a 
fearful failure? Without doubt, it was because he 
was a man without deep convictions. He had no 
high principles of action. When he deliberately 
rejected the Gospel as his rule of life, he set his 
own personal success before his mind as the great 
end of his earthly existence. To win, no matter 
how, was his aim. Hence, in studying law, he 
refused to give himself to the investigation of the 
principles of law, seeking only to master its prac- 
tice. At the bar, he never hesitated to resort to 
ruse or stratagem, if it promised success. In po- 
litical life, he avowed no clearly defined princi- 
ples, and overthrew his opponents by measures 
so adroit and cunning that they made even his 
supporters question his patriotism and trustworthi- 
ness. In social life, though never a drunkard, he 
sacrificed the chastity of women on the foul altar 
of his passions. He spent money lavishly, and 
indulged his natural kindliness, by giving money 
away, which, of right, belonged to his creditors. 



AARON BURR. 65 

His challenge to Hamilton was the offspring of 
an anger not entirely unjust in itself, but uncon- 
trolled by conscience. He appears, indeed, to 
have been a^s utterly destitute of moral feeling as 
he was of principles. Hence it was that, although 
his eminent talents won brilliant success for a 
time, he failed to command the confidence of so- 
ciety, and was vanquished by that supreme self- 
ishness which was the ruling element in his 
character. Alas, that this child of a spiritual 
ancestry should have cast away the principles 
which crowned his forefathers with honor! Had 
he embraced, instead of rejecting, the Gospel, it 
would have given him just what he lacked; 
namely, principles. And they, grasped by a will 
so firm as his, would have governed his passions, 
regulated his conduct, given him the confidence 
of his fellow-men, the blessing of God, and a 
name of which his countrymen would have been 
justly proud. But he chose to lead an ungodly 
life, and lived to illustrate the divine proverb, 
which says, "An ungodly man diggeth up evil." 

5 




III. 



THOMAS CHATTERTON, 
®6e JHarbtlou* Bo^-f ott. 



|B|||PWARD of a century ago a manufacturer 
vMffiJ of earthenware, while in the house of a 
poor widow at Bristol, England, was so 
pleased with her children that he promised 
them a present of some of his wares. Turning to 
a sprightly, gray-eyed boy of five, he asked : 

"What shall I have painted on your piece, 
Master Tommy?" 

Fixing his sparkling eyes on the man of Delft- 
ware and china, the boy replied : 

"Paint me an angel with wings, and a trum- 
pet to trumpet my name*over the world." 

This reply, if it be not apocryphal, was very 
66 






THOMAS CHATTERTON. 67 

extraordinary for a child. Still, it is not improb- 
able. It is related of a boy who was, in truth, 
one of the most marvelous boys that ever lived, 
Thomas Chatterton. Let us glance at what is 
known of his sad history. 

This wonderful boy was the son of a Bristol 
schoolmaster. He was born in November, 1752, 
and, owing to the death of his father a month or 
two previous to his birth, was destined to a life of 
respectable penury. When he was five years old, 
the teacher who had succeeded his father in the 
mastership of the Pyle Street school, kindly un- 
dertook his instruction. But so wayward or stupid 
did he appear that he was soon sent home "as 
a dull boy incapable of improvement." 

Mrs. Chatterton was made very unhappy by 
this verdict against the capacity of her much- 
loved boy. She was cheered, however, shortly 
after by witnessing the enthusiasm of her singular 
child over the illuminated letters of an old musi- 
cal manuscript which fell into his hands. Under 
this inspiration young Thomas soon learned the 
alphabet, and then his mother had but little 



68 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

trouble teaching him to read from the pages of a 
copy of Holy Scripture, printed in black-lettered 
antique type. How much influence the type of 
this, his first reading book, may have had upon 
his subsequent love for the study of antiquities is 
an interesting question not easily answered. 

When he was eight years old we find young 
Chatterton.the inmate of a Bristol charity school. 
Here he was boarded, lodged, kept drudging at 
lessons in reading, writing, and arithmetic, nine 
hours a day in Summer, and seven in Winter. 
Every night in the year he and his companions 
are forced to be in bed at eight o'clock. Their 
only respite from this confinement is on the after- 
noons of Saturdays and Saints'* days, when they 
are permitted to visit their homes. Surely this 
was a dull life and a poor school for the develop- 
ment of such a genius as our unhappy young hero 
unquestionably possessed. 

At this school his teachers did not even suspect 
him of being a boy of uncommon ability. In the 
play-ground, when disposed to join them in their 
games, he was the leader of his playmates; but in 



THOMAS CHATTERTON. 6g 

the school-room he did not appear either to care 
or strive for pre-eminence. When ten years old 
he began to display a taste for reading, and his 
manners became retiring, grave, pensive, and 
even melancholy at times. He had few intimates. 
The little money his good mother gave him he 
spent in hiring books from the circulating library. 
Not novels, but books of history and divinity, 
engaged his attention while he was as yet but 
eleven years old. Before he was twelve he began 
to write verses which, being mostly of a satirical 
character, he concealed from his teachers. They 
were, however, in thought and execution, far in 
advance of his age. Viewed in connection with 
his lack of literary education, some of them were 
truly precocious and astonishing. 

Toward the latter part of his stay at this char- 
ity school he made rapid progress in arithmetic, 
acquired some knowledge of music, and a taste 
for drawing. Moreover, from the time that he 
began to write poetry, his disposition improved. 
He became more cheerful, no doubt, because he 
had unconsciously discovered the bent of his 

L 



70 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

genius. Its gratification afforded him pleasures 
previously untasted. 

When fifteen years old he was apprenticed for 
seven years to one Lambert, a scrivener, in Bris- 
tol. His home was now in the house of his 
master. His days were spent in an office copy- 
ing lav/ precedents and other writings. He had 
considerable spare time, which he spent in the 
study of history, heraldry, and antiquities, obtain- 
ing the necessary books from the circulating libra- 
ries. His rapid progress in these unassisted 
studies was as remarkable as the other parts of 
his most extraordinary career. 

Up to his sixteenth year young Chatterton, 
though not a religious youth, had lived a moral, 
upright life. He had performed all the duties of 
his apprenticeship with exemplary fidelity. He 
had kept himself free from bad associations and 
evil habits of life. He had won a high reputa- 
tion for truthfulness among his friends, and was 
much beloved by his mother and sister, to 
both of whom he was strongly attached. His 
only marked fault was his sullenness toward the 



THOMAS CHATTERTON. 7 1 

servants, with whom he took his meals in his 
master's kitchen. He despised them for their 
ignorance, coarseness, and lack of taste, and did 
not strive to conceal the scorn he felt. 

But when sixteen he " began a series of lite- 
rary impositions unparalleled in the history of 
letters." His entrance upon this part of his 
careeer was in October, 1768, when a new bridge 
was opened in Bristol. He then startled antiqua- 
ries and readers generally by publishing a mem- 
oir of uncommon ability,, describing the open- 
ing of the old bridge by the ancient friars first 
passing over it with appropriate ceremonies, great 
pomp, and joyous music. This paper — he told 
the editor who printed it — was copied from an 
ancient manuscript which his father had found, 
with others of like character, in an old chest kept 
in a muniment room over the chapel of St. Mary 
Radcliffe. To others he told a different story, 
but denying his authorship to all who questioned 
him. 

This paper was succeeded by many others,, 
historical, theological, and poetical. These were 



72 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

all compositions of sufficient skill to excite the 
curiosity, if not the admiration, of literary men; 
but the poems were of rare merit. He pretended 
that they were written by Thomas Rowley, a 
monk of the fifteenth century, and copied by 
himself from the ancient manuscripts found in the 
muniment room of Radcliffe chapel. They con- 
tained passages of great lyrical beauty. Some of 
them were pastoral eclogues, which good judges 
pronounced equal to the best pastorals of ancient 
or modern times. 

These papers, together with others of which 
he avowed himself the author, secured him the 
acquaintance and friendship of several gentlemen 
of means and culture. Their favor and his ambi- 
tion to win distinction in the world of letters, 
begot in his aspiring soul a strong distaste for the 
duties of a scrivener's apprentice. He longed to 
break the legal fetters which bound him to his 
master. To this end he sent several manuscripts 
purporting to be copies from the old parchments 
found in the muniment chamber to the Hon. 
Horace Walpole, soliciting his patronage and aid 



THOMAS CHATTERTON. 73 

in securing some position which would afford him 
means and opportunities of enjoying leisure for 
literary pursuits. Walpole submitted the papers 
to some critical friends who pronounced them 
forgeries. Walpole, • while accepting their judg- 
ment, saw so much merit in the poetry sent him 
that, notwithstanding the attempted imposition, 
he wrote kindly to Chatterton, advising him to 
adhere to his profession until its profits should 
enable him to find leisure for literary work. The 
young poet was irritated by this good advice, and 
subsequently bitterly satirized his adviser in one 
of his productions. 

To this foolish dislike of an honorable profes- 
sion, our boy-poet, when only seventeen, added 
the greater folly of rejecting the Christian religion, 
in which he had been educated. "Heaven send 
you the comforts of Christianity," he wrote to a 
friend. "I request them not, for I am no Chris- 
tian." Foolish boy! He mistook the aversion of 
his proud heart from the restraining truths of 
Holy Writ for the conclusions of an intelligent 
judgment. He cast away the sustaining power 



74 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

of religion at the perilous period in which his 
imperious passions were about to launch him into 
stormy circumstances, with which he was ill pre- 
pared to contend. Who can wonder that he was 
overpowered and lost ! 

We now see this gifted young man, proudly 
leaning on his own strength, openly rejecting the 
grace of the blessed Gospel. How does he en- 
dure the strain of his life-trials? Alas! poor boy, 
he yields under the first pressure. He sought 
pecuniary help from a literary gentleman and was 
refused. Almost immediately he wrote a paper 
which he entitled his "last will and testament," 
in which he intimated his purpose to take his 
own life. This paper accidentally fell into the 
hands of his employer. That gentleman, learning 
that he had mentioned this mad purpose to the 
servants, dismissed him at once. He would not 
risk the possibility of such a catastrophe occur- 
ring in his household. 

Whether this proud, imperious boy was serious 
in uttering this wicked threat, or whether he made 
it in hopes of the dismissal which it secured him, 



THOMAS CHATTERTON. 75 

can not be determined. Certain it is that he 
accepted his liberty with enthusiastic joy, and 
hasted away from Bristol to London, dreaming 
gilded dreams of literary celebrity and wealth. 

At first he seemed likely to realize his dreams. 
His reputation as a precocious writer had preceded 
him. The London publishers received him cordi- 
ally, accepted his articles for their magazines, 
and paid him liberally. He wrote songs, ballads, 
satires, political essays, and addresses to civic 
and other dignitaries. He began to make his 
way into literary society. He frequented the 
theaters, dressed fashionably, and wrote jubilantly 
of his prospects to his mother and sister. "Occa- 
sional essays for the daily papers," he wrote, 
"would more than support me. What a glorious 
prospect! . . . My company is courted every- 
where; and, could I humble myself to go into a 
counting-room, I could have had twenty places 
before now. But I must be among the great. 
State matters suit me better than commercial." 

Thus wrote this brilliant but ill-fated youth in 
July, 1770, some two months after his arrival in 



y6 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

London. But, for reasons never fully explained, 
his sun suddenly suffered an almost total eclipse. 
Possibly this was because of the growing belief 
that his alleged poems, by Rowley, were forger- 
ies, and that he was an impostor in that he was 
palming his own productions upon the public 
under false pretenses. Whatever the cause, he 
lost the patronage of the booksellers, sunk rapidly 
to the verge of starvation, and, on the 25th of 
August, 1770, his own rash hand hurried his 
guilty soul, unbidden, to the bar of the Eternal 
One. His dishonored body was carried, in a 
shell, to an almshouse burial ground, and laid, 
with scant ceremony, in a pauper's grave. 

The key to Chatterton's character is to be 
found in his boyish request to have an angel 
. painted on his china, trumpeting his name over 
the world. Ambition was his ruling passion. Not 
ambition regulated by regard for right, but a 
wayward, unprincipled ambition, which fixed its 
eye on a renowned name without regard for the 
rightfulness of the means employed to win it. 
His plan, if indeed this enigmatical lad had any 






THOMAS CHATTERTON. JJ 

well defined plan, seems to have been to win dis- 
tinction for his productions as writings of the 
olden time, and then to claim the honor of their 
authorship. Had he merely used the name of 
Thomas Rowley as a pseudonym, there could 
have been no moral objection to the concealment 
of his authorship. But his denial of it involved 
lying, deceit, forgery, and false pretenses; it put 
him into the position of an impostor, and threw a 
cloud of suspicion over his character, which re- 
pelled the confidence of friends and left him to 
become the victim of an evil destiny. 

The preposterous folly of this scheme is such, 
that one is perplexed to understand the mental 
process which led young Chatterton to adopt it. 
Conscious as he was of his own great ability, he 
could scarcely help seeing that he could not fail 
of public recognition if he pursued a straightfor- 
ward, honorable course. Perhaps he fancied that 
the crooked route to distinction was the shortest. 
If so, he made a terrible mistake. The path of 
right is always straight. Crooked ways always 
lead to a maze of difficulty and ruin. 



78 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

Had Chatterton curbed his impatient soul by 
placing it under the control of Christian truth 
and listening to the dictates of common sense, he 
would have won lasting renown both as a poet 
and a man. He was wondrously gifted in mind 
and body. His person was prepossessing, his 
bearing manly and dignified beyond his years 
and above his position. His gray eyes were strik- 
ingly brilliant, and, when he was excited, they 
sparkled with unwonted fires. One of them, as 
was the case with Byron, was more fiery than 
the other. 

To this proud outward bearing was joined a 
mind of rare power. He acquired knowledge 
with unexcelled rapidity. His genius was almost 
universal. In this respect he has been ranked 
"above Dryden," and "only second to Shakes- 
peare." Byron praised him. Coleridge, Shelley, 
and Keats acknowledge his great ability. Words- 
worth spoke of him as "the marvelous boy, the 
sleepless soul that perished in his pride," and 
fame has inscribed his name among the brightest 
of the sons of genius. 



THOMAS CHATTERTON. 79 

With such endowments, what needed he but 
patient persistence in the path of duty to win the 
honor he craved? Clearly that and nothing more. 
A faithful adherence to his religious principles, a 
resolute fidelity to the duties of his profession, a 
determined curbing of his impatient passion for 
distinction, and a natural, honest use of his op- 
portunities for the display of his talents, would 
have won the fame he courted, preserved the 
uprightness of his character, saved him from 
the unpardonable crime of self-destruction, and 
crowned him with laurels on earth and glory in 
heaven. Alas! that so fair a youth should have 
been his own destroyer; that, in combating the 
obstacles in his path to distinction, he should 
have been overthrown and trodden down by the 
foolish devices and desires of his own heart. Let 
the young reader beware of seeking profit or dis- 
tinction by walking in crooked ways, which are 
all Paths of the destroyer. 




IV. 



BENEDICT ARNOLD, 
®S* traitor of our 3&*fioIuttott. 

/N the old Colonial times there was a boy in 

■■$. 

K the beautiful village of Norwich, Connecti- 

$ cut, who was an object of both admiration 
and fear to the village children. In daring 
feats he had no equal. He could climb the tall- 
est trees, fight the hardest battles, and perform the 
most audacious deeds, with a success which many- 
envied, but could not equal. There was a big 
overshot wheel at the nearest grist-mill, upon 
which this reckless lad would mount, cling to its 
arms, descend beneath the water, and rise up 
again on the opposite side. This and kindred 

deeds which he used to perform won admiration 
80 



BENEDICT ARNOLD. 8 1 

from his companions, and led them to look upon 
him as a sort of boy-hero. But their admiration 
was mingled with fear. Their hero had a mali- 
cious, cruel temper. He was in the habit of 
robbing birds' nests, not in the thoughtless spirit 
of most boys, or to gain the longest string of 
eggs, but that he might smash the eggs, and 
fiercely tear unfledged birds limb from limb. , He 
would scatter broken glass near the school-house, 
that barefoot children might go home with bleed- 
ing feet. He would place cracked phials, which 
were his perquisites at the druggist's store where 
he was an apprentice, outside the shop, where 
passing boys might readily suppose they were 
thrown away as useless. When some poor wights 
picked them up, this boy would rush from con- 
cealment, whip in hand, shout " Thief!" at the 
frightened little fellows, and send them home 
smarting and crying with pain caused by the 
blows he inflicted. These and similar tricks 
made him the terror of the town. Nevertheless, 
as stated above, there was such an unwonted cour- 
age in some of his acts as to invest him with a 



82 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

halo that softened the terror caused by his ferocity. 
Like some wild animals, he fascinated those whom 
he frightened. 

This unlovely boy was Benedict Arnold, who 
lived to cover his name with the luster of military 
glory, and then to tarnish it with the dye of de- 
liberate and infamous treason. To a very un- 
common degree he illustrated the seemingly 
impossible proverb, that "the boy is father of the 
man." Let us look a little more closely into his 
youthful history. 

Young Arnold came of honorable ancestors. 
One of them was the second President of the 
Colony of Rhode Island, and was held in very, 
high respect. But the Arnold blood became 
tainted in Benedict's father, who settled in Nor- 
wich in 1730. Here he prospered for a time, 
traded to the West Indies, became a wealthy 
merchant, and married a highly esteemed Chris- 
tian lady. But with all his gain he failed to win 
that most precious social pearl — a good name. 
Lacking integrity of character, his life became 
corrupt. He wasted his fortune by indulgence 



BENEDICT ARNOLD. 83 

in vice, sank into indigence, and died an object 
of universal contempt. 

Benedict was the second son of this unhappy 
man, and was born at Norwich, January 3, 1740. 
His father, not having fallen as yet, gave him a 
good common -school education. His eminently 
pious mother did her utmost to train him in the 
principles of the Christian religion. When he 
was about fourteen, his father's sinking fortunes 
compelled his removal from school, and he was 
shortly after apprenticed to the Messrs. Lathrop, 
relatives of his mother, and prosperous druggists 
in Norwich. 

His home was now in the family of Dr. La- 
throp, where he had all the advantages of culti- 
vated Christian society. The Doctor did his 
best to make him a good business man and to 
persuade him to cultivate his heart and brain. 
But he despised instruction, and gave himself to 
the indulgence of his evil impulses with an obsti- 
nacy which would not be overcome. The illus- 
trative incidents cited above show that his im- 
pulses were exceptionally bad. By yielding to 



84 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

them, instead of striving to overcome them, as 
he was taught to do, he became a notoriously 
bad boy. 

Like most self-willed, reckless lads, young 
Benedict was restless. A quiet business life did 
not suit his uneasy temper. He longed for change 
and excitement. When, therefore, the bustle of 
preparation for war with the French in Canada 
arrested his attention, he chafed under the re- 
straints of his position like a young war-horse 
against the bit of its rider. Regardless of his 
obligations to a loving mother and his kind-hearted 
masters, this boy of sixteen stole secretly away, 
and enlisted in the troop about to start from 
Hartford for Lake George. His mother, trem- 
bling for his safety, appealed to her friends, and 
through them procured his discharge. Benedict 
then resumed his duties in the druggist's shop. 
Here his sense of gratitude and duty should have 
kept him. But, again preferring self-will to duty, 
he ran away a second time, and, being left to 
himself by his despairing friends, succeeded in 
reaching the camp at Lake George. 



BENEDICT ARNOLD. 85 

He was now a soldier; but, being placed on 
guard duty, the chains of discipline and the mo- 
notony of life in the barrack-room soon disgusted 
his fiery spirit, which longed for movement and 
adventure. Regardless, as usual, of every thing 
but his own wishes, he deserted, and found his 
way back to Norwich, where his generous masters 
again received him, and where he remained until 
he reached the years of manhood. 

By this time his Christian mother, crushed be- 
neath the burden of a drunken husband and a 
wayward son, had sunk into an untimely grave. 
But his old masters, partly for his mother's sake, 
and partly because they hoped that his unques- 
tionable energy of character, if directed into 
legitimate business channels, might yet bring him 
honor and success in life, set him up in business 
as an apothecary in New Haven. For a time it 
seemed that this hope would become reality. 
Benedict's activity brought success. His business 
enlarged. He became a thriving merchant, then 
a prosperous navigator, commanding his own ves- 
sels in a profitable West India trade. He married 



86 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

a respectable lady, who, fortunately for her own 
peace, died before his military career began. By 
her he had three sons. I^ery thing conspired to 
favor his prosperity and help him to an honorable 
career, except the unconquered impulses of his 
own bad heart. As these had spoiled the beauty 
of his boyhood, so again did they soil the purity 
of his young manhood. Being untamed, they 
grew with his growth. Prosperity nursed them 
into lion-like strength. They made him a furi- 
ously passionate, quarrelsome, reckless, and dis- 
honest man. He became a bankrupt not in purse 
only, but also in reputation. People doubted his 
integrity. 

Nevertheless, such was his energy that he 
started in business once more, and appears to 
have again met with some pecuniary success. 
But it was won by means of smuggling, hazardous 
enterprises, and violations of mercantile honor. 
It did not bring him the respect of society. To 
most he was still an object of suspicion. While 
they admired his great force of character, his 
incessant activity, and his manifold resources, 



BENEDICT ARNOLD. 87 

his neighbors dared not place reliance upon his 
honor. 

Such, in brief, was Benedict Arnold's life for 
the thirty-five years prior to his entrance upon the 
stirring stage of military life. He had started with 
fair advantages, such as a moderate education, a 
good Christian mother, kind religious masters, a 
thorough knowledge of a respectable, profitable 
business, superior business abilities, exhaustless 
energy of character, an indomitable will, and a 
nature which knew no fear. His disadvantages 
were, the evil influence of a drunken, dishonored 
father, a fiery temper, a restless soul, a selfish, 
cruel disposition, and, as we judge, a dull, sluggish 
conscience. With such a nature, the battle be- 
tween right and wrong was sure to be fierce and 
desperate. Where intense selfishness is joined to 
a feeble conscience, the soul finds it hard work 
to surrender itself to the claims of its Maker and 
Redeemer. But young Benedict well knew that 
he might have had ample help from Him who 
says to every seeker, "My grace is sufficient for 
thee*," had he chosen to ask for it. But there is 



88 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

no evidence that he ever tried to conquer himself. 
Had he done so, there can be no doubt that his 
indomitable will, aided by the grace of God, could 
have made him a mirror of all excellence, a 
Christian of the loftiest height. Instead of this, 
he very early gave himself up to the devices of 
his own heart. And this voluntary surrender of 
himself to the evil within him, rather than the 
evil itself, was what made him first an exception- 
ally bad boy, then a dishonorable business man, 
and finally, as we shall hereafter see, a traitor to 
his country. 

In 1775, the heroic deeds of the brave yeomen 
of Lexington, Mass., thrilled every patriotic heart 
in the Colonies, and began the great war through 
which the American Colonists fought their way to 
independence. Among the thousands who sprang 
to arms under the inspiration of that startling 
event was Benedict Arnold. His well-known 
daring had just secured him an election as cap- 
tain of a company of guards at New Haven. 
When the city bells summoned the excited popu- 
lace to the green to discuss the news from Lex- 






BENEDICT ARNOLD. 89 

ington, Arnold addressed the crowd, and called 
for volunteers. Sixty men placed themselves 
under his command, and were ready to march 
the next morning. Finding the selectmen reluc- 
tant to furnish ammunition for his troop, Arnold, 
with characteristic audacity, threatened to break 
open the magazine. This threat brought the 
cautious guardians of the town to terms. They 
gave him the needed cartridges, and he led his 
men, by rapid marches, to the camp of the gath- 
ering hosts of freedom at Cambridge. 

Before starting, Arnold had, in some way, 
gained an inkling of a plan, under secret discus- 
sion at Hartford, for surprising Fort Ticonderoga, 
on Lake Champlain. Concealing this fact, Arnold 
cunningly proposed the enterprise to the Massa- 
chusetts authorities as an original idea, and offered 
to conduct it under their auspices. They accepted 
his proposal, gave him a colonePs commission, 
authority to enlist men for the expedition, ammu- 
nition, money, and permission to draw on them 
for supplies. Such was his eagerness to forestall 
the movement from Hartford, that he was on the 



90 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

frontier of Massachusetts three days after receiving 
his commission. He was too late, however. The 
Connecticut men had already gone forward, joined 
some Green Mountain boys, elected Ethan Allen 
commander, and got all things in readiness for 
moving on the coveted fort. Arnold speedily 
overtook them, showed them his commission, and 
demanded the leadership of the expedition. This 
was peremptorily refused; but he was permitted 
to join it as a volunteer. 

Ticonderoga was taken on the ioth of May. 
Arnold marched in," side by side with Ethan 
Allen, at the head of the troops. He thus shared 
the glory of the exploit he had been ambitious 
to direct. 

Shortly after the capture of the fort some of 
the men enlisted under his orders reached him. 
He then separated from Allen, captured a fort at 
St. John's, organized a little navy on the lake, 
sent some of his captured guns and mortars to 
Cambridge, and prepared to resist a rumored at- 
tempt of the British to recover possession of their 
captured forts. 






BENEDICT ARNOLD. 91 

But, notwithstanding this successful activity, 
his arrogant manner and loose method of expend- 
ing money awakened doubts of his integrity in 
the minds of the authorities in Massachusetts. 
They sent a committee of inquiry to Lake Cham- 
plain. He was incensed, not without reason, at 
the method pursued, protested, discharged his 
men, returned to Massachusetts, and settled his 
accounts. The affair had given him some military 
reputation, but his spirit and conduct had also 
caused a cloud of mistrust and suspicion to gather 
round his name. 

Washington soon after resolved on sending an 
army through the eastern wilderness, by way of 
the Kennebec, to attack Quebec, in conjunction 
with a force that was to descend the St. Law- 
rence from Montreal. It was a dangerous enter- 
prise, demanding just such daring, persistence, 
and courage as Washington believed Arnold to 
possess. For this reason he gave him a colonel's 
commission in the Continental army, and placed 
eleven hundred men under his command, with 
orders to proceed as quickly as possible. 



92 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

Arnold fully justified his commander's confi- 
dence, and led this brave little force through 
obstacles which would have daunted most com- 
manders. From a fort just ' above Augusta, to 
which they sailed, he guided them up swift 
streams, around rapids and cataracts, through 
swamps and over precipices, from the Kennebec 
to the Dead River; thence, by way of Lake Me- 
gantic, to the beautiful valley of the Chaudiere. 
The sufferings and toil endured by those brave 
men seem scarcely credible. But Arnold's in- 
domitable spirit and fertility of resources sup- 
ported them, and, after about six weeks of fearful 
marching, he mustered his brave little force at 
Point Levy, opposite the formidable fortifications 
of Quebec, to the utter astonishment of its defen- 
ders. The next morning he was on the plain of 
Abraham, in full view of the city walls. Here, 
in a spirit of gasconade more worthy of a Spanish 
than an American commander, he sent the garri- 
son a demand for surrender, which very natu- 
rally excited much merriment among the enemy. 
Then, finding that much of his ammunition was 



BENEDICT ARNOLD. 93 

spoiled, and many of his handful of men unfit for 
service, he retired to a post eight leagues up the 
St. Lawrence, to await the arrival of General 
Montgomery, who was coming from Montreal. 

In the ill-advised and unfortunate assault on 
Quebec, which followed the arrival of the brave 
Montgomery, Arnold's skill and courage were so 
conspicuous that the Continental Congress re- 
warded him with a brigadier-general's commis- 
sion. After rendering further important services 
in Canada, he retreated with the rest of the army 
to Lake Champlain. The campaign had greatly 
increased his military reputation, but a bitter 
quarrel with a brother officer, and some question- 
able seizures of goods in Montreal, strengthened 
the doubts of his integrity which had arisen out 
of his previous conduct. 

His next exploit was on Lake Champlain, 
where he acted as admiral of a little fleet, and 
fought a naval battle with a greatly superior 
force, with such skill and boldness that, although 
he was finally defeated, he won the approval of 
his military superiors and the applause of his 



94 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

country. He was then ordered to Rhode Island, 
to resist the advance of the British beyond New- 
port, where they had landed. While at this point 
his pride was keenly hurt by the act of Congress 
creating five new major-generals, without includ- 
ing him in the list. Viewed from a military 
stand-point, this was unjust. Washington con- 
demned it, but it was no doubt occasioned by 
the dissatisfaction of many patriots with his pri- 
vate character. Arnold was chagrined. He pro- 
tested, and finally started for headquarters, to 
obtain permission to go to Philadelphia and lay 
his grievances before Congress. 

On his way he fell in with some troops which 
were seeking a British force that had just burned 
the village of Danbury, in Connecticut. He 
joined them, and displayed his usual audacious 
bravery in leading some of them against the 
enemy. When outflanked at one time, and com- 
pelled to order a retreat, he remained behind all 
his men. A platoon of British soldiers fired at 
him from the top of a high rock, on his left flank. 
His horse fell dead, but Arnold still kept his sad- 



BENEDICT ARNOLD. 95 

die. A soldier rushed down the rock with his 
bayonet fixed, intending to run him through the 
body. But no sooner was he within pistol-shot 
than Arnold drew a pistol from his holster and 
shot him. He then quitted his saddle and joined 
his retreating men unhurt. 

His cool courage and splendid fighting on this 
occasion so added to his favor, that Congress 
made him a major-general, and voted him a horse 
and equipments, but would not give him the sen- 
iority he claimed as a matter of military right. 
For this reason he went to Philadelphia, where 
he demanded an investigation of his conduct. 
The Board of War inquired, and pronounced his 
character and conduct entirely satisfactory, and 
Congress approved their report; but, still lacking 
confidence in the man, the majority of Congress 
unjustly withheld from him the much-coveted sen- 
iority of rank. 

Arnold now presented his accounts for settle- 
ment. They showed such an unaccountably 
heavy balance in his favor as to excite fresh sus- 
picions. Congress lingered over its investigation, 



g6 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

and Arnold, disgusted and angry, tendered the 
resignation of his commission. Meanwhile, the 
approach of Burgoyne's army at the north led 
Washington to desire his services with the North- 
ern army. Ever eager for active service, he con- 
sented to go. He speedily joined the army of 
the Hudson, under General Gates, with whom he 
quarreled so bitterly that Gates, piqued and jeal- 
ous, deprived him of command. But in the bat- 
tle of Behmus' Heights, he rode into the most 
sorely contested parts of the bloody field, fought 
like a madman wherever he appeared, led a brill- 
iant assault on the enemy's works, and, in short, 
decided the fortune of that brilliant day by his 
extraordinary valor. 

He was wounded in the leg during this action, 
and compelled to spend the following Winter 
inactively. But his spirit was soothed by the 
concession of the desired seniority by Congress, 
and by the cordial approval of Washington, who 
further testified his regard by the gift of a set of 
epaulets and a sword-knot. Alas that a man 
whose great military genius could win such tro- 



BENEDICT ARNOLD. 97 

phies should have made his heart a nest of violent 
tempers and base dispositions ! 

Arnold's wound having unfitted him for active 
service, Washington appointed him to the com- 
mand of the city of Philadelphia, directly after 
the British retired from it in the Summer of 1778. 
Here he set up a grand establishment. He hired 
a magnificent mansion, filled it with costly furni- 
ture and numerous servants, rode out in a stately 
carriage drawn by four horses, gave luxurious 
dinners, and entertained distinguished guests in 
princely style. These displays of grandeur fasci- 
nated the imagination of a fashionable young lady 
named Shippen, and, notwithstanding she was 
an avowed Royalist, Arnold made her his wife. 
This was a singular choice for a republican sol- 
dier; but its singularity disappeared when his 
treason became apparent, a few months later. 

His duties in Philadelphia were peculiar, and 
needed to be performed with much discreetness. 
But this was a virtue Arnold never possessed. 
On the contrary, he was harsh and unscrupulous. 
Moreover, his extravagant style of living soon 

7 



98 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

plunged him into a deep ditch of pecuniary em- 
barrassments. To relieve himself, he engaged 
in questionable speculations, which, proving un- 
fortunate, sunk him deeper in the mine of insolv- 
ency. As a consequence he not only lost the 
confidence of the Philadelphians, but became so 
obnoxious to them that he was mobbed in the 
streets by the populace. Complaints were made 
against him, many of which were no doubt un- 
just; but a court-martial found him guilty of one 
or two charges, and sentenced him to be repri- 
manded by General Washington. He was much 
soured by these proceedings, complained loudly 
of their injustice, boasted of his past services and 
patriotism, inveighed against the ingratitude of 
Congress, and proclaimed himself a, martyr to 
partisan prejudice. Possibly he was so in some 
measure; but the fact, subsequently proved, that 
during months of his stay in Philadelphia he was 
in treasonable communication with the British 
commander, not only justified the suspicion with 
which many patriots regarded him, but made it 
certain that he was a most consummate and un- 



BENEDICT ARNOLD. 99 

principled hypocrite. It is surprising that he 
retained as he did the confidence of such patriots 
as Jay, Clinton, Schuyler, and Washington. But 
they, no doubt, were so strongly impressed by 
his evident greatness as a commander, that they 
permitted the halo with which his exploits had 
surrounded his name to eclipse the faults with 
which he was charged by men who he asserted 
were his enemies. 

It was by an abuse of the confidence still 
reposed in him by those great men, that he pre- 
vailed on Washington to place him in command 
of West Point. There is no doubt that he secured 
this important post with the deliberate purpose of 
surrendering it to the British. As previously 
stated, he had been in communication with Clin- 
ton, their commanding general, under the as- 
sumed name of Gustavus, but had not received 
much encouragement, because he had nothing 
but himself to offer. But, now that he could 
give possession of a post which was of vital im- 
portance, Clinton listened with attention to his 
proposals. 



IOO VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

At Arnold's request, the accomplished Major 
Andre was sent up the Hudson to arrange a plan 
for giving the English possession of West Point. 
Arnold met him in the night at a point six miles 
below Stony Point, conducted him within the 
American lines, gave him all necessary explana- 
tions concerning the approaches to West Point, 
determined the plan and time for making the at- 
tack, and named the conditions on which he would 
perform his part of the traitorous scheme. These 
things arranged, Andre started on horseback for 
the English lines. 

Humanly speaking, there was every probability 
that the proud flag of England would soon float 
over the battlements of West Point, and the cause 
of American liberty be eminently periled, if not 
wholly lost. But that Providence which watches 
over the fate of nations so ordered it that the 
unfortunate Andre should choose a road which 
brought him to a spot in Tarrytown where four 
patriotic volunteers were watching for suspicious 
stragglers. They stopped him, and, finding some 
important papers, in Arnold's handwriting, hidden 



BENEDICT ARNOLD. IOI 

within his stockings beneath his feet, arrested him 
as a spy. The papers were sent to General 
Washington. Notice of Andre's capture was sent 
to Arnold. 

The latter step no doubt saved the traitor from 
a felon's fate. He received it five hours before 
the papers which demonstrated his treason reached 
the commander-in-chief. Washington was over- 
whelmed with astonishment. He had always 
been Arnold's friend, but these tell-tale papers 
were conclusive of his subordinate's villainy. He 
issued instant orders for pursuit; but the traitor, 
having full five hours' start, had passed the posts 
on the river in a well-manned boat, protected by 
a flag of truce, and had reached the deck of the 
Vulture, a British ship of war, in safety. 

But poor Andre met with the doom of a spy. 
He was a noble young man, of pure character, 
highly accomplished, and greatly beloved by all 
who knew him. Could his life have been spared 
consistently with the safety of the army and the 
independence of the country, he would doubtless 
have been permitted to live. This being deemed 



102 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

impossible, however, he was hanged at the head- 
quarters of our army, in Tappan, N. J. He 
submitted to his fate with manly dignity. 

Arnold received a brevet brigadier -general's 
commission, and something over thirty thousand 
dollars in gold, as the reward of his treason. He 
subsequently ravaged portions of Virginia at the 
head of a British force. His last military exploit 
was the capture of Forts Griswold and Trumbull, 
and the burning of New London. At the close 
of the war he went, first, to England, then to 
New Brunswick and the West Indies for purposes 
of trade. Finally, he returned to England, where 
he died, in 1801, aged sixty-one years. 

The scorn of the civilized world followed 
Benedict Arnold from the day of his flight from 
West Point to the end of his life. Even British 
officers and noblemen despised him, and English 
subjects in New Brunswick burned him in effigy. 
His name is still a by-word and a reproach. It 
will continue to be so as long as men regard 
honor, truth, and loyalty as virtues. "So long 
as the sun and the moon endureth," Benedict 



BENEDICT ARNOLD. 103 

Arnold's character will remain an object of uni- 
versal detestation. 

The opinion which high-minded Englishmen 
entertained of this bad man is illustrated in the 
following anecdotes : 

Shortly after his arrival in England, the author- 
ities of the realm, as a matter of policy, attempted 
to do him honor. When a petition was presented 
the King by Parliament, one day, Arnold was 
seen standing near the throne, as if enjoying high 
favor with His Majesty. On returning to the 
House, Lord Lauderdale expressed a very general 
feeling when he rose and said : 

Ci However gracious may be the language I 
have heard from the throne, my indignation could 
not but be highly excited at beholding His Maj- 
esty supported by a traitor." 

At another time Lord Surrey, rising to speak, 
saw Arnold in the gallery of the House of Lords. 
Pointing to him, as he sat down, he exclaimed: 

"I will not speak while that man is in the 
House '!" 

Of what value, think you, were Arnold's gains, 



104 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

so long as they were accompanied by such scorn 
as this? What pleasure could he take, so long 
as he was forced to feel that men looked upon 
him as a creature to be despised? What peace 
could he enjoy, moving amid the splendors of a 
grand home, so long as he knew that even his 
coachman and other servants regarded him with 
contempt? How could he avoid being stung to 
the quick with shame and disgust of himself, 
whenever he reflected on the vile treason he had 
sought to accomplish against his country? No 
doubt his nature was hard and callous, his char- 
acter low and sordid, his moral sense dull and 
narrow, and his excuses for his crime abundant. 
Nevertheless, he must have found it a bitter thing 
to drink waters from the cup of self-reproach, and 
to eat the bread of public scorn for more than 
twenty years. How incomparably happier would 
have been his lot had he been true to himself and 
to his country ! 

We beg the young reader to make careful note 
of the fact that Benedict, the reckless, cruel, self- 
willed, audacious boy, was father of Benedict, the 



BENEDICT ARNOLD. IC5 

traitorous man. The vices of his boyhood were 
the germs of his manhood's crime. Had he fol- 
lowed the loving counsels of his mother, and the 
manly example of his master, Dr. Lathrop, he 
would have found power in the grace of God to 
transform his evil nature, and to nourish those 
virtues which would have prevented even the 
birth of treasonable thought. No doubt his nat- 
ural impulses to evil were uncommonly strong. 
Yet they were not his destroyers, so much as his 
resolute refusal to use the means of restraining 
them. The grace he rejected was sufficient, had 
he cultivated it, to make him as good a man and 
as honorable a general as Washington. He would 
not accept it, and therefore his impulses made 
him a traitor- — and a warning to all youth who 
reject the Gospel. 





ROBERT BURNS, 

®6e Barb of £toiIan&. 

[JMAGINE a tall man, about twenty-six years 

old, walking the streets of Edinburgh, Scot- 

§, land. His sinewy limbs, vigorous steps, 

and decided motions, indicate strength and 

activity. His swarthy face, his dark, dull eyes, 

his shrewd expression, his rustic dress, suggest 

that he is neither a gentleman nor a genius, but a 

well-to-do Lowland farmer. 

As we follow this seemingly insignificant man, 

we find he is on his way to the most aristocratic 

quarter of Edinburgh. To our surprise, he pauses 

at the door-step of the Duchess of Gordon, "the 

loveliest as well as the wittiest of women." The 
1 06 






ROBERT BURNS. 107 

door opens. He passes into the grand hall, and 
is presently ushered, with much deference, into 
the elegant drawing-room, which is crowded with 
the elite of the Scottish nobility, lovely women 
and distinguished literary characters. The men- 
tion of his name excites general attention. Every 
eye is turned toward him. The lady of the man- 
sion receives him with distinguishing grace and 
cordiality. She engages him in conversation, 
which is listened to with marked satisfaction by 
the bevy of beauties and the group of gentlemen 
who have gathered around this unassuming visi- 
tor. He is evidently the lion of the evening. 

Let us note the bearing of this man under 
circumstances so unsuited to his aspect. Is he 
eclipsed by their brilliancy ? Is he struck dumb 
by the learning, culture, and eloquence of the 
distinguished scholars who surround him ? Is he 
abashed in the presence of Scotland's most beau- 
tiful and fashionable daughters? Not at all. On 
the contrary, a change almost magical has passed 
over him, transformed him indeed. Instead of 
the dull look and uncourtly movement of the 



108 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

rustic, he has the air, the ease, the grace, the 
elegant simplicity, of a gentleman. The sunshine 
of genius flashes upon his brow. There is "a 
smile of winning sweetness" upon his lips, and 
a glow of light in his large, dark eyes, which is 
" almost insufferable." This, with his conversa- 
tion, to which we will now listen a moment, pro- 
claims him to be the possessor of the passion 
which makes the poet. 

The bard, for such he is, speaking with grace- 
ful deference, tells these proud ladies the stories 
on w T hich his songs were founded. Speaking of 
one entitled "Highland Mary," he says that the 
name of his heroine was Mary Campbell. "She 
was fair, affectionate, and guileless as she was 
beautiful. The first time he saw her was during 
one of his musing walks in the woods of Mont- 
gomery Castle, and the first time he spoke to her 
was during the merriment of a harvest-supper. 
There were others there who admired her, but 
he addressed her, and had the luck to win her 
regard from them all. He soon saw she was the 
lass he had long sought, but never before found — 



ROBERT BURNS. IO9 

that her good looks were surpassed by her good 
sense; and her good sense was equaled by her 
modesty and discretion. He met her frequently; 
she saw by his looks that he was sincere; she put 
full trust in his love, and used to wander with 
him among the green hillocks and stream-banks 
till the sun went down and the moon rose, talk- 
ing, dreaming of love and the golden days which 
awaited them. He was poor, and she had only 
her half-year's wages, for she was in the condition 
of a servant; but thoughts of gear never dark- 
ened their dreams. They resolved to wed, and 
exchanged vows of constancy and love. They 
plighted their vows on the Sabbath to render 
them more sacred; they made them by a rivulet, 
where they had courted, that open nature might 
be a witness; they made them over an open 
Bible, to show that they thought of God in this 
mutual act; and when they had done, they both 
took water in their hands, and scattered in the 
air, to intimate that as the stream was pure so 
were their intentions. They parted when they 
did this, but they parted never to meet more. 



IIO VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

She died in a burning fever during a visit to her 
relations to prepare for her marriage; and all he 
had of her was a lock of her long bright hair and 
her Bible, which she had exchanged for his." 

Such was the character of the romantic tales 
our poet told to the greedy ears of Scotland's 
most fashionable circles. In literary coteries, 
among wits, roisterers, and titled Jacobites, he 
also won applause for his rare social qualities, his 
ribald humor, or his avowed sympathy with the 
claims of the exiled Stuarts. Thus, during a 
whole Winter, this singular man was emphat- 
ically the lion of Edinburgh society. 

No doubt my young reader has already recog- 
nized the Bard of Scotland, Robert Burns, in 
these pen pictures, which are only faithful out- 
lines of that unfortunate man's reception in the 
Scotch capital during the Winter of 1786-7 — the 
brightest, if not the happiest, and the most criti- 
cal period in his brief career. It was then that 
his star suddenly rose from the depths of social 
obscurity, blazed with a wild, glittering bright- 
ness for a short time, but only to sink again 



ROBERT BURNS. 1 1 1 

behind black masses of clouds, from which it 
never emerged until death smote his harp-strings. 
Then it came forth clear and radiant, to shine 
henceforth among stars of the first magnitude in 
the intellectual firmament. To trace the course 
of the poet's sad life, from his birth to the time 
of his appearance in Edinburgh, shall now be 
our task. 

Writing of his ancestors, Robert Burns play- 
fully quoted the lines of Pope: 

"My ancient but ignoble blood 
Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood." 

He meant by this that none of his ancestors had 
ever won distinction. They were poor men. His 
father was gardener on a small estate near Ayr, 
in Scotland, and was "a very poor man," albeit 
he was intelligent, honest, strictly religious, and 
every way superior to his lowly condition. His 
mud-walled, tottering cottage stood on the " banks 
of bonny Doon;" and here, on the 25th of Janu- 
ary, 1759, Robert, his first-born, was ushered 
into the world. 

Poor as he was, Robert's father did not neg- 



112 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

lect his son's education, but instructed him per- 
sonally in the elements of knowledge, and also in 
the sacred Scriptures. So effective was this latter 
instruction that it begat what Burns in later days 
foolishly called "an enthusiastic idiot piety." A 
faithful schoolmaster also contributed to his men- 
tal growth, so that Burns could say in his auto- 
biography : 

"I made an excellent English scholar, and by 
the time I was ten or eleven years of age, I was 
a critic in substantives, verbs, and particles." 

His devout mother contributed no mean part 
to the unfolding of the young poet's mind. Her 
gentle words and loving spirit sweetened not a 
little the bitter waters of poverty which he was 
compelled to drink. Her familiarity with the 
old Scotch ballad poetry, which she constantly 
chanted, enabled her to furnish food for his im- 
agination. He also, he says, "owed much to an 
old woman who resided in the family, remark- 
able for her ignorance, credulity, and supersti- 
tion. She had, I suppose, the largest collection 
in the country of tales and songs concerning 



ROBERT BURNS. 113 

devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, war- 
locks, spunkies, kelpies, elf-candles, dead-lights, 
wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, giants, enchanted 
towers, dragons, and other trumpery." Scotland 
has always been famous for its tales and tradi- 
tions of this character. 

This "trumpery" had its value, in that it 
"cultivated the latent seeds of poetry" in the 
mind of this gifted boy, and aided somewhat 
in brightening the darkness of his early days. 
Nevertheless, according to his own confession, he 
was not an attractive boy. A sturdy stubborn- 
ness characterized him, and he was "by no 
means a favorite with any body." 

When our nascent poet was about seven years 
old, a gleam of light fell upon his father's circum- 
stances. Aided by his kind master he became 
the tenant of a farm in the neighborhood, named 
Mount Oliphant. Here for ten or twelve years 
he toiled laboriously in the vain hope of bettering 
his condition. But the death of his laird, bad 
seasons, a wet soil, and a cruel factor, finally 
drove him thence. A new farm at Lochlea, ten 



114 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

miles distant, promised better things at first; but 
ill fortune seemed to haunt the poor man's foot- 
steps; and, though he and his sons, now old 
enough to assist in the labors of the farm, en- 
dured the " gloom of hermits and the moil of 
galley-slaves," they could scarcely wring a com- 
fortable subsistence from the unwilling soil. 

Still this change, which lifted his father from 
the position of a servant to that of a tenant, 
brought many advantages to Master Robert. A 
better and more enthusiastic schoolmaster, access 
to more and better books, and companionship 
with lads of higher birth and superior condition, 
aided to increase his knowledge and to enlarge 
his ideas. Under these influences his studious 
mind grew fast. He drank knowledge from all 
accessible fountains. Books on history, divinity, 
philosophy, and poetry he devoured greedily; but 
Scottish stories and Scottish poesy were his chief 
delight. They fed his imagination and stirred 
his emotions, though it does not appear that they 
awakened him to a consciousness that he was 
the possessor of poetic gifts. His father, who 



ROBERT BURNS. 115 

watched the progress of his mind with affection- 
ate intensity, was wont to say : 

"Whoever may live to see it, something extra- 
ordinary will come from that boy." 

The poverty and ill health of the father made 
it necessary that his children, of whom he had 
seven, should be put to the hard work of the 
farm at a very early age. Hence, when only 
thirteen, Robert was required to assist in thrash- 
ing the wheat. At fifteen he was the principal 
laborer on the farm. This premature putting on 
of the yoke of hard labor not only interfered with 
his mental progress, but it also injured his health 
and depressed his spirits. Its evil effects were 
increased by the lack of sufficient nourishing 
food. His originally robust frame yielded to this 
unnatural pressure. He began to stoop at the 
shoulders. A nervous disease, which affected the 
heart and produced an incurable hypochon- 
dria, seized him, filled him with discouragement, 
blighted his hopes, and left him, as he tells us, 
without spirit or energy to form a plan of life. 
Hence, when he was called by the death of his 



Il6 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

father to assume the responsibility of an eldest 
son, he was like an overburdened vessel tossing 
unhelmed in the midst of a stormy sea. 

Still it can not be denied that the heaviest 
trials of the young poet were the fruits of his 
own follies. It was, indeed, a hardship to be so 
poor and overworked, but with this heritage of 
toil he had the "Benefits of a better education than 
usually falls to the lot of boys in his condition; 
of a home which was consecrated to genuine, 
intelligent piety; and of careful parental training 
in the principles and practice of our holy relig- 
ion. With all his toil, poverty, nervous depres- 
sions, and poetical excitability, had young Burns 
clung to his religious principles, he might have 
lived a happy life, and won that immortal crown 
which is infinitely more precious than the laurel 
with which the world crowned his brow. 

But, unhappily for himself, Burns forsook the 
path of rectitude. As he approached the years 
of manhood, he developed rare social qualities. 
His conversational powers were remarkable, and 
their exercise afforded him pleasure. Unfortu- 



ROBERT BURNS. 1 17 

nately, he was not careful in the choice of his 
companionships. Going to study mensuration and 
land surveying at Kirkoswald, he mingled with 
a band of smugglers who infested the coasts. 
"With them/' he says, "I learned to fill my 
glass and to mix, without fear, in a drunken 
squabble." A year or two later he went to Irvine, 
to learn to dress flax. Here, writes his brother 
Gilbert, "he contracted some acquaintance of a 
freer manner of thinking and living than he had 
been used to, whose society prepared him for 
overleaping the bounds of rigid virtue which had 
hitherto restrained him. During this period also 
he became a Freemason, which was his first intro- 
duction to the life of a boon companion/'* Still 
worse was the influence of a "young fellow," 
named Richard Brown, who inspired him with 
enthusiastic friendship, and awakened him to a 
consciousness of his superior lyrical ability, but 
who also corrupted his virtue. "He spoke," says 
Burns, "of illicit love with the levity of a sailor, 
which hitherto I had regarded with horror. Here 
his friendship did me a mischief." 



1 1 8 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

The bad results of these ill-chosen associations 
were speedily apparent. His good father had 
noted them with pain, and on his death-bed said 
to his daughter : 

"There is one of the family for whose future 
conduct I fear." 

Robert stepped to the good man's humble 
bedside, and asked : 

"O father, is me you mean?" 

"It is, my son," replied the dying father, with 
a tenderness which so touched his sensitive son 
that he turned toward the window with streaming 
eyes and swelling bosom. But these were not 
the signs of that penitence which forsakes trans- 
gression, but only of that remorse which trembles, 
weeps, yet sins again. 

For a time, however, he abandoned his follies, 
and devoted himself to the cultivation of a farm, 
which he and his brother rented at Mossgiel. 

But his thoughts were too much occupied with 
poetry to permit him to be a successful farmer. 
Moreover, the land on his farm was poor and 
wet. He bought poor seed the first year. The 



ROBERT BURNS. II9 

season during the second year was cold. The 
crops ran short, his health gave way, he was jilted 
by a lassie who had promised to become his bride, 
and he says : 

"I returned, like the dog to his vomit, and the 
sow that was washed to his wallowing in the mire." 

He returned to his low associates. He "ranted 
and boosed with smugglers/' says Allan Cunning- 
ham, "conversed with tinkers, huddled in a kiln, 
or listened to the riotous mirth of a batch of tur- 
bulent, wandering 'bodies/ as they emptied their 
powks and pawned their duds for liquor in Poosy 
Nansie's tavern." True, he was partly influenced 
by his desire to gain materials for his poems, 
which he was now beginning to throw off with 
wonderful facility. Nevertheless, in thus touching 
pitch, he did not escape defilement. His charac- 
ter deteriorated, his life became soiled. 

One of his mother's maids fell a victim to his 
illicit love. Then, under a written promise of 
marriage, which he persuaded her was equivalent 
to a legal wedding, he led the dark-eyed Jean 
Armour, a farmer's daughter, astray. When the 



120 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

unhappy girl's shame became known, her incensed 
father refused to let her become the lawful wife 
of the as yet unknown poet, who was really anx- 
ious to take her as such. Instead of accepting 
him for his son-in-law, the stern farmer required 
him to obtain security for the support of the twin 
children born to him by the guilty Jean. 

Fearing the "terrors of a jail," Burns gave up 
his interest in the farm at Mossgiel, skulked 
"from covert to covert,'' and roamed, "moody 
and idle, about the land, with no better aim in 
life " than a situation as clerk on a plantation in 
the West Indies, offered him by a friend, and "a 
vague hope of distinction as a poet." 

Our poet was now in the depths of that par- 
tial retribution which generally follows the trans- 
gression of social laws. He was tasting the bitter 
fruits of unscriptural self-indulgence, and was for 
a brief period on the verge of distraction. In 
the "Lament," written at this time, he calls him- 
self "a wretch who inly pines," who mourned 

"In lamentation deep 
How life and love are all a dream. " 



ROBERT BURNS. 121 

Burns had an enlightened conscience. God's 
Word and his father's faithful teaching had won- 
derfully quickened his moral nature. Hence his 
sins were always followed by keen remorse. But, 
alas for his peace! his will was swayed by his 
passions, not regulated by the faithful monitor 
which rebuked him for his follies. Thus, as we 
shall further see hereafter, his passions dug his 
grave. 

To comprehend the means by which Burns 
rose out of the depths into which he fell by his 
social sins, we must go back a few years to the 
event which led to his first attempts at poetry, in- 
asmuch as it was the discovery of his poetic gifts 
by the public which raised him from the depths 
of his obscurity to sudden national distinction. 

Imagine him, then, when about seventeen 
Summers old, a rustic lad, clothed in the rough, 
home-made garments of a Scottish peasant, busy 
reaping in his father's field at the Mount Oliphant 
farm. According to a then prevailing "custom 
of coupling a man and woman together as part- 
ners in the labors of the harvest," he wrought 



122 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

beside "a bewitching creature, ... a bonnie, 
sweet, sonsie lass." The tones of this attractive 
girl, who sang sweetly, made his heart thrill. 
His pulse beat furiously when he touched "her 
little hand, to pick out the cruel nettle-stings and 
thistles." In short, this "bonnie lass" was the 
inspiration which called his slumbering lyrical 
powers into life. In her honor he composed his 
first song. 

The fountain being unsealed, the stream of 
poesy poured forth with constantly increasing 
abundance from his sensitive soul. Every rustic 
lass with whom he chanced to meet, if she pos- 
sessed a fine figure, a graceful motion, or a pretty 
face, became to him a goddess at whose shrine he 
worshiped with poetic ardor. After a time higher 
themes than the imaginary charms of rustic maid- 
ens inspired his muse. The romantic scenery of 
his native rivers, the superstitions of his country- 
men, the heroic deeds of the patriotic men who 
once peopled the hills and glens around him, and 
the quiet virtues of the Christian cotter, became 
the topics which he celebrated in imperishable 



ROBERT BURNS. 1 23 

lyrics. But with these high-toned songs were 
others born of low passions and inspirations, — 
humorous drinking songs, sharp satires on Church 
controversies, and profane scoffings at religion. 
Yet, whatever his theme might be, his treatment 
of it illustrated his great lyrical powers, and de- 
lighted the few who chanced to hear them recited 
or sung. Among these were several gentlemen 
of wealth and culture, who encouraged the bard 
to present his effusions to the public in a volume. 

When therefore Burns fled from the dogs of 
law, burdened with poverty and mortification, 
and intending to bury himself on a West India 
plantation, he adopted the counsel of his culti- 
vated advisers, in the hope of obtaining money 
sufficient to pay his passage to Jamaica. Sub- 
scription papers were put in circulation, subscrib- 
ers were readily obtained, six hundred copies 
printed at Kilmarnock, and sold almost immedi- 
ately after publication, netting their abject author 
a clear profit of one hundred dollars! 

He was now prepared to pay his passage- 
money to Jamaica, and his chest was on its way 



124 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

to Greenock, where he intended to take ship. 
But learning that his poems had made his name 
famous, not only among milkmaids, peasants, and 
mechanics, but also among distinguished literary 
men, he recalled his trunk, resigned his Jamaica 
clerkship, and, full of hope, rode to Edinburgh 
on a little pony loaned him by a friend. There, 
aided by Dr. Blacklock, who had already "pro- 
claimed him a poet of the first rank," by Macken- 
zie, by the Earl of Glencairn, and other notabilities, 
he found his way into literary and polished society. 
A subscription for a second edition of his poems 
was successfully started, he became the lion of 
the hour, and when he left Edinburgh the follow- 
ing Spring (1787), on a tour to the north of Scot- 
land, he carried with him the proud consciousness 
that he was "admired by all who aspired to be 
thought tasteful and refined. " 

The bard was now twenty-seven years old. 
He was no longer a poor, obscure Ayrshire plow- 
man, but the acknowledged chief of Scottish 
poets. Wherever he went on his tours, of which 
he made three, he was treated with the respect 






ROBERT BURNS. 125 

due to his genius. But on his return to Edin- 
burgh the succeeding Winter, he was mortified to 
find that the enthusiasm of his first reception had 
very generally died out. The doors of the grand 
saloons in which he had been courted, lionized, 
flattered, were now either closed against him, or 
opened only to admit him to a reception so cold 
and stately as to intimate that his presence was 
no longer desired. His quick sensibilities were 
severely wounded, and he sought relief in the 
society of such individuals as still gave him coun- 
tenance, in trying to effect a final settlement with 
his bookseller, and in a more than questionable 
acquaintance and correspondence with a married 
lady, whose husband had forsaken her. This last 
friendship was regarded as platonic by the parties; 
but in reality, if not absolutely criminal, it was 
of such a nature as to deserve unqualified con- 
demnation. No doubt the passionate irregularities 
of the poet, his associations during the previous 
Winter with gay Jacobite young men especially, 
contributed largely to this loss of social distinc- 
tion. Great as he was, both as a poet and a 



126 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

conversationalist, there was so much dross in his 
character, that he could not win that measure of 
respect which was necessary to secure him a per- 
manent position in the upper walks of life. 

Having effected a settlement with his publisher, 
and with about two thousand five hundred dollars 
in his purse — profits from the sale of his poems — 
Burns left Edinburgh, and resumed his former 
avocation on a farm which he leased at Ellisland, 
on the banks of the Nith. His changed circum- 
stances made the friends of Jean Armour willing 
to consent to her marriage with the poet, and she 
finally became his bride, but under circumstances 
which reflect no credit on the virtue of either. 

Burns gave the following characteristic account 
of his marriage and his motives, in a letter to his 
eccentric friend, Dr. Geddes: 

"In that first concern, the conduct of the 
man, there was ever but one side on which I was 
habitually blamable, and there I have secured 
myself in a way pointed out by nature and by 
nature's God. I was sensible that to so helpless 
a creature as a poor poet, a wife and family were 



ROBERT BURNS. 1 27 

encumbrances which a species of prudence would 
bid him shun; but where the alternative was, 
being at eternal warfare with myself, on account 
of habitual follies, to give them no worse name, 
which no general example, no licentious wit, no 
sophistical infidelity, would to me ever justify, I 
must have been a fool to have hesitated, and a 
madman to have made another choice. Besides, 
I had in my Jean a long and much-loved fellow- 
creature's happiness or misery upon my hands; 
and. who could trifle with such a deposit?" 

Strange confessions these, of weakness uncon- 
trolled, of clear conceptions of right, clouded by 
dim ideas of "the exceeding sinfulness of sin," 
and of guilt remorsefully recollected, yet not re- 
pented of with that repentance which is followed 
by self- conquest. 

For a year or two the poor farmer seemed 
prosperous at Ellisland, but his restless mind, 
constantly excited by the passionate activity of 
his poetic genius, could not give that attention to 
details which is necessary to agricultural profit. 
Hence, after three years, he threw up his lease 



128 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

and devoted himself to the humble but distasteful 
duties of an exciseman in the town of Dumfries. 
His income was small, but he was encouraged to 
hope for the office of supervisor, with a salary 
adequate to the maintenance of a comfortable 
social position — a hope that was disappointed, 
chiefly through the poet's indiscreet unreasoning 
zeal in condemning the Government for joining 
in the war which Europe was then waging against 
the revolutionists of France. Burns had such a 
lofty pride of opinion, and such a morbid, exag- 
gerated feeling of personal independence, that he 
could scarcely discern the line which divides pru- 
dence from folly. Guided by these feelings he 
blundered into an attitude of hostility toward the 
authorities by whose grace he held his appoint- 
ment, and was, therefore, left to struggle on in 
comparative poverty to the bitter end. They 
never gave him the coveted and comfortable 
supervisorship to which he aspired. 

He had, however, a still worse enemy. His 
craving for mental excitement led him into the 
society of convivialists. His national reputation 



ROBERT BURNS. 1 29 

caused numerous gentlemen passing through Dum- 
fries to send him invitations to spend evenings 
with them at the village hotels. Others invited 
him to convivial gatherings in the neighborhood. 
The poor man was too weak-willed to decline 
either, and too easily tempted by sparkling wine, 
foaming beer, and Scotch whisky to drink with 
his entertainers without becoming intoxicated. 
The usual results of drunken habits followed, — a 
neglected family, distressed circumstances, ill 
health, mental wretchedness, death! On the 21st 
of July, 1796, when nearly thirty-seven years old, 
1 'he spread out his hands, sprang forward, nigh 
the whole length of the bed, fell on his face, and 
expired !" 

The report of his death shocked all Scotland. 
Thousands flocked to his burial, and multitudes 
who had neglected the man now lavished tributes 
of praise upon the poet. The people who suffered 
Burns to end his days in poverty and sorrow 
joined as one man to pass his name down to pos- 
terity as the prince of Scotland's bards. 

Poor Burns ! The exquisite tenderness, the 
9 



130 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

touching sentiment, the lofty imagination, the 
brilliancy of expression, the vehement earnest- 
ness, the human sympathy, and the rare simplic- 
ity, which characterize his peerless lyrics, have 
won the heart of the world. His name will 
always stand high on the roll of poetic fame. 
One can scarcely extol the poet too highly. 
Would that the man were equally worthy of 
loving remembrance ! His eulogists, investing 
him with the aureola of genius, would fain have 
mankind believe that he was; but the unques- 
tioned vices which stained his life give the lie to 
such claims, and demonstrate that the songs 
which charm us were less the genuine expres- 
sions of his character than those which offend our 
Christian feelings. As we read such songs, for 
example, as his " Highland Mary," the " Cotter's 
Saturday Night," and "To Mary in Heaven," it 
seems impossible to doubt that Burns was the 
most sincere, the truest of lovers and a devout 
Christian. Yet when we learn that just before 
plighting a lover's faith "over the Bible" to his 
Highland Mary, he had been swearing eternal 



ROBERT BURNS. 131 

fidelity to the betrayed Jean Armour and to one 
of his mother's too credulous maidens, we can not 
help doubting both his sincerity and his morality. 
And his "Cotter's Saturday Night" was com- 
posed too near to "The Jolly Beggars," a poem 
which, with all its wit and humor, reeks too 
much of unbridled lust and bacchanalian revelry 
to inspire us with a very strong faith in the poet's 
possession of the piety which seems to breathe in 
the former composition. Indeed, one feels it 
difficult to comprehend how the same man could 
have written both poems, their tone, spirit, and 
sentiments are so contradictory. As to the relig- 
ion of the poet, it is more than sufficient to know 
that his most pious utterances are found in a 
series of raving love-letters, written by him to a 
married lady in Edinburgh ! 

Alas for our poet! His religious conceptions 
were darkened by antinomian notions opposed to 
the Gospel, his sense of moral obligation was 
overborne by irregular impulses, which carried 
him like a rushing tide into the filthy dopths of 
impurity and intemperanee. That he was honest 



132 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

in his business affairs, independent and manly 
toward his social superiors, kind to his depend- 
ents, and strong in his attachments to his literary 
friends, is cheerfully admitted. But these virtues 
were no atonement for the vices which tyrannized 
over him, and of which he never repented with 
that penitence which forsakes the sin. Had he, 
like his noble, suffering father, held fast to the 
truth, clung to the cross of Jesus with an over- 
coming faith, he would have won a double 
crown. But, being the slave of ignoble impulses, 
though a victor in the field of poesy, he was self- 
vanquished in the spiritual arena. He died with 
the poet's crown upon his haggard brow; but 
who that judges his unhappy life by the clear 
light of that Gospel which blesses none but the 
pure in heart, through faith, dares hope that he 
won the eternal crown? 



VI. 



STEPHEN GIRARD, 



®6* Na^oUoii of JH truants. 

||MAGINE the figure of an old man, low in 
stature, squarely built, clumsily dressed, 
and standing on large feet. To this un- 
couth form, add a repulsive face, wrinkled, 
cold, colorless, and stony, with one eye dull and 
the other blind — a "wall-eye." His expression is 
that of a man wrapped in the mystery of his own 
hidden thoughts. He looks 

"Like monumental bronze, unchanged his look — 
A soul which pity never touched or shook — 
Trained, from his lowly cradle to his bier, 
The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook 
Unchanging, fearing but the charge of fear — 
A stoic of the mart, a man without a tear." 

133 



134 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

Such a man was Stephen Girard, one of the 
most distinguished merchants in the annals of 
commerce, and the founder of the celebrated 
Girard College in Philadelphia. Let us briefly 
trace his history and observe his character. 

Girard was a Frenchman by birth, born in the 
environs of Bordeaux, in May, 1750, of obscure 
parents. His early instruction was very limited; 
and, being deformed by a wall-eye, he was an 
object of ridicule to the companions of his boy- 
hood. This treatment, as is supposed by his 
biographer, soured his temper, made him shrink 
from society, and led him to live among his own 
thoughts rather than in mental communion with 
his fellows. 

The precise cause of his leaving his native 
hearth-stone is unknown. The fact is certain that 
he did leave it, when only ten or twelve years 
old, and sailed, a poor cabin-boy, to the West 
Indies. This was his starting-point in life. Never 
had any boy a smaller capital on which to build 
his fortune. He went out from his unhappy 
home, ignorant, poor, unfriended, and unknown. 



STEPHEN GIKARD. 1 35 

That from such a cheerless beginning he should 
rise to the rank of a merchant prince must be 
accounted one of the marvels of human history. 

His first step was to gain the confidence of his 
superiors, not so much by affability and courtesy — 
for of these social virtues he was never pos- 
sessed — as by steady good conduct, fidelity to his 
employers, temperance, and studied effort to do 
his humble duties well. Whatsoever his hands 
found to do he did with his might. As a conse- 
quence we find him, in a few years, in high favor 
with a Captain Randall, of New York, who al- 
ways spoke of him as "my Stephen," and who 
promoted him from one position to another until 
he secured him the command of a small vessel, 
and sent him on trading voyages between the 
ports of New York and New Orleans. That the 
poor cabin-boy should rise, by his own merits, in 
some six or seven years, to be the commander 
of a vessel, was success such as few lads have 
ever won with such slender means and few helps 
as were within reach of young Girard. 

When only nineteen, we find him in Philadel- 



I36 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

phia, driving a thrifty but quiet trade in a little 
shop in Water Street. Shortly after opening this 
store, his fancy was taken captive by a maiden 
of sixteen Summers, named Mary, but familiarly 
called Polly, Lum. She was a shipwright's daugh- 
ter, a pretty brunette, who was in the habit of 
going to the neighboring pump, barefooted, "with 
her rich, glossy, black hair hanging in disheveled 
curls about her neck." Her modesty pleased 
him, her beauty charmed him, and, after a few 
months of rude courtship, he was married to her, 
in 1770. 

His marriage, instead of carrying happiness 
into the home over which he installed his beauti- 
ful bride, only embittered two lives. It was a 
union of mere fancy on his side^ and self-interest 
on hers, not of genuine affection. Their disposi- 
tions were not congenial. She was ignorant, 
vulgar, slovenly. He was arbitrary, harsh, rude, 
imperious, unyielding. How could their lives flow 
on evenly together? It was impossible. The 
result was misery to both, and, as we shall see 
hereafter, the once beautiful Polly Lum ended 



STEPHEN GIRARD. 1 37 

her days in a mad-house — a sad illustration of 
the folly of premature, ill-assorted marriages. 

Finding little at his fireside to move his heart, 
Girard gave his whole soul to business, now trading 
to San Domingo and New Orleans, and then in 
his store in Water Street. When the Revolution- 
ary War began, it swept his commercial ventures 
from the ocean, but he, still bent on gain and in- 
different as to the means of winning it, then 
opened a grocery, and engaged in bottling cider 
and claret. When the British army occupied 
Philadelphia he moved this bottling business to 
Mount Holly, in New Jersey, where he continued 
until the American flag again floated over Inde- 
pendence Hall. 

But times were hard and money scarce, and 
for a while Girard added very little to his means. 
Yet his keen eye was sharply watching for golden 
opportunities, and his active mind busily thinking 
how to create or improve them. In 1780, cir- 
cumstances made trade with New Orleans and St. 
Domingo very profitable. He promptly engaged 
in it, and in two years doubled his resources. 



138 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

Peace being restored, Girard, full of faith in 
the future of his adopted country, leased a block 
of stores for ten years at a very low rent. The fol- 
lowing year, while business still lay stunned by the 
blows it had received during the war, he obtained 
a stipulation from his landlord, giving him the 
right to renew his lease for a second ten years, 
if he chose to demand it, when the first one 
should expire. This was an act of judicious 
foresight. When, at the expiration of the first 
lease, he visited his landlord, that gentleman, on 
seeing him enter his counting-room, said : 

"Well, Mr. Girard, you have made out so well 
by your bargain that I suppose you will hardly 
hold me to the renewal of the lease for ten years 
more." 

"I have come," replied Girard, with a look 
of grim satisfaction, "to secure the ten years 
more. I shall not let you off." 

Nor did he. And the great profits he derived 
from that fortunate lease greatly broadened die 
foundation of his subsequently colossal fortune. 

As yet, however, his wealth was very moderate, 



STEPHEN GIRARD. 1 39 

for in 1790, at the dissolution of a partnership he 
had formed with his brother who had come to 
America, his own share of the business amounted 
to only thirty thousand dollars. And yet, forty 
years later, he died leaving a fortune of ten millions. 
It is sad, but may be profitable to know, that 
his happiness dfd not increase with his posses- 
sions. While his balance-sheets recorded increas- 
ing assets, his hearth-stone echoed louder and 
wilder echoes of discordant voices. He was 
jealous, arbitrary, and passionate; his unfortunate 
wife was resentful, fiery, and finally so furious 
that, in 1790, she was admitted as a maniac to 
an insane hospital, which she never left until she 
was carried to her grave, unwept and unregretted, 
twenty -five years after. Their only child had 
gone to an early grave. Girard's nature must 
have been strangely perverted if he counted, as 
he seems to have done, the pleasure of making 
money a compensation for the absence of true 
womanly love from his cheerless fireside. His 
heart, no doubt, was as unsentimental as the gold 
he loved to hoard. 



140 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

The terrible retribution which about this time 
overtook the slave-holders of St. Domingo, when 
their slaves threw off their oppressive yoke, added 
considerably to his rising fortunes. He happened 
to have two vessels in that port when the tocsin 
of insurrection rang out its fearful notes. Frantic 
with apprehension, many planters rushed with 
their costliest treasure to these ships, left them in 
care of their officers, and went back for more. 
But the blood-stained hand of massacre prevented 
their return. They and their heirs perished by 
knife or bullet, and the unclaimed treasure was 
taken to Philadelphia, to swell the stream of 
Girard's wealth. He deemed this a lucky acci- 
dent, no doubt; and smothered his sympathies for 
the sufferers in the satisfaction he felt over the 
addition of fifty thousand dollars to his growing 
estate. It stimulated, if it did not beget, the 
dream of his life, the passion which possessed his 
soul, which was to acquire wealth by which his 
name might be kept before the world forever. 
"My deeds must be my life. When I am dead 
my actions must speak for me," he said to an 



STEPHEN GIRARD. 141 

acquaintance one day, and thus gave expression 
to his plan of life. There was nothing intrinsic- 
ally noble in it. If the means he finally adopted 
bore a philanthropic stamp on their face, his mo- 
tive was purely personal, and therefore low and 
selfish. What he toiled for was a name that 
would never die. He was shrewd enough to 
perceive that this end could be most surely 
gained by linking it with the philanthropic spirit 
of the Christianity which he detested. And 
hence arose his idea of founding Girard College. 

Shortly after plucking the golden fruit which 
fell into his hands from the St. Domingo insurrec- 
tion, Girard enlarged his business by building 
several splendid ships, and entering into the 
China and India trade. His operations in this 
line were managed with true mercantile genius, 
and contributed greatly to the enlargement of his 
fortune. 

He made these ships the visible expressions 
of his thoughts on religion and philosophy by 
naming them, after his favorite authors, the Mon- 
tesquieu, the Helvetius, the Voltaire, and the 



142 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

Rousseau, He thus defiantly assured the world 
that he was not only a skeptic, but that he also 
gloried in that by no means creditable fact. 

Girard's life was filled with enigmas. He really 
loved no living soul. He had no sympathies. He 
would not part with his money to save agent, 
servant, neighbor, or relation from death. Never- 
theless, when the yellow fever spread dismay, 
desolation, and death throughout Philadelphia, in 
1793, sweeping one-sixth of its population into 
the grave in about sixty days, he devoted himself 
to nursing the sick in the hospital with a self- 
sacrificing zeal which knew no bounds, and which 
excited universal admiration and praise. His 
biographer accounts for this conduct, repeated on 
two subsequent visitations of that terrible fever, 
by supposing that he was naturally benevolent, 
but that his early trials had sealed up the fount- 
ains of his human feeling. A great public catas- 
trophe broke the seal, the suppressed fountain 
flowed until the day of terror passed, and then 
with resolute will he resealed the fountain, and 
became a cold-hearted, selfish man again. 



STEPHEN GIRARD. 143 

His selfish disregard for the claims of his de- 
pendents was shown, one day, when one of his 
most successful captains, who had risen from the 
humble position of apprentice to the command 
of a fine ship, asked to be transferred to another 
ship. Girard made him no reply, but, turning to 
his desk, said to his chief clerk : 

"Roberjot, make out Captain Galigar's account 
immediately." 

When this order was obeyed and the account 
settled, he coolly said to the faithful officer : 

"You are discharged, sir. I do not make the 
voyage for my captains, but for myself." 

There was no appeal to be made from this 
unjust, arbitrary decision, and the man, who had 
served him faithfully seventeen years, left his 
counting-room to seek another employer. 

Discourtesy was also a characteristic of this 
unlovely and unloving man. He never consid- 
ered men's feelings , nor sought to give pleasure to 
others by means of the small courtesies of life. 
He had a farm in the suburbs of the city, and a 
garden at the back of his town residence. In 



144 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

both he cultivated beautiful flowers and rare 
fruits; but never, either to visitors or neighbors, 
did he offer gifts of either. Rich though he was, 
he sent the surplus to market. He once told a 
visitor he might glean strawberries from a bed 
which had been pretty thoroughly picked over. 
Returning from the lower part of the garden, he 
found the gentleman picking berries from a full 
bed. With a look of astonishment, and a voice 
of half-suppressed anger, he pointed to the ex- 
hausted bed and said: 

' ' I gave you permission only to eat from that bed. " 
Singular meanness! Yet, notwithstanding this 
narrow disposition, which ran like veins abnor- 
mally distended over nearly all his habits of life, 
he could, and did at times, do liberal things. But 
even in such things he was capricious and eccen- 
tric; as when a highly esteemed Quaker, named 
Coates, asked him one day to make a donation 
to the Pennsylvania Hospital. He replied: 

"Call on me to-morrow morning, Mr. Coates, 
and if you find me on a right footing, I will do 
something." 



STEPHEN GIRARD. 145 

Mr. Coates called as requested and found 
Girard at breakfast. 

"Draw up and eat," said Girard. 

Coates did so quite readily. The repast ended, 
he said, "Now we will proceed to business, 
Stephen." 

"Well, what have you come for, Samuel?" 

"Any thing thee pleases, Stephen," rejoined 
the Quaker. 

Girard filled out and signed a check for two 
hundred dollars. Coates took it, and, without 
noting how much was the amount, put it in his 
pocket-book. 

"What, you no look at the check I gave 
you?" exclaimed the merchant. 

"No, beggars must not be choosers." 

"Hand me back the check I gave you," de- 
manded Girard. 

"No, no, Stephen; a bird in the hand is 
worth two in the bush," responded Coates. 

"By George," exclaimed Girard, "you have 

caught me on the right footing" 

He then drew a check for five hundred dol- 
10 



146 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

lars, which he laid before the Quaker, saying: 
"Will you now look at it, Samuel ?" 

"Well, to please thee, Stephen, I will." 

He did so, and then, at Girard's request, 
returned the first and went away triumphantly 
with the second check. 

Skeptic though he was, Girard sometimes gave 
money to build churches, not because they were 
churches, but because, as buildings, they contrib- 
uted to the improvement of the city. To a 
brother merchant who solicited aid toward build- 
ing a Methodist church he once presented a 
check for five hundred dollars, saying: 

"I approve of your motives, and, as the erec- 
tion of such a building will tend to improve that 
quarter of the city, I am willing to assist in the 
furtherance of your object." 

It happened that the church to which he thus 
contributed was subsequently sold to the Episco- 
palians, who proceeded to convert it into a Gothic 
structure at a very considerable outlay. They 
also waited on Girard soliciting a contribution. 
He handed them a check for five hundred dol- 



STEPHEN GIRARD. 147 

lars. The gentlemen solicitors looked blank, and 
intimated that he had made the mistake of omit- 
ting a cipher. He had given the "poor Method- 
ists" that sum they pleaded; he surely must 
have intended to make his present gift five thou- 
sand. With this remark they handed back the 
check, requesting him to add the desired cipher. 

"Ah, gentlemen, what you say? I have made 
one mistake? Let me see; I believe not; but if 
you say so I must correct it." 

Thus saying, he took up the check, tore it to 
pieces, and added: "I will not contribute one 
cent. Your society is wealthy. The Methodists 
are poor, but I make no distinction. Yet I can 
not please you. ... I have nothing to give 
for your magnificent church." 

But, with all his offensive peculiarities, Girard 
continued to increase his wealth. His ships 
spread their sails on every sea and earned money 
for him in every great commercial port. In 181 2 
he founded the old Girard Bank and added the 
rich profits of banking to the immense gains of 
his vast mercantile transactions. This new enter- 



148 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

prise greatly enlarged the sphere of his influence, 
especially as in matters pertaining to the financial 
interests of the country and of the city of Phila- 
delphia he manifested a degree of public spirit 
which contrasted marvelously with his narrowness, 
meanness, and even inhumanity, in dealing with 
individual and private interests. He was cer- 
tainly a patriotic man. Nevertheless, as his biog- 
rapher demonstrates, he always contrived to 
make his patriotism tributary to the increase of 
his immense wealth. His magnificent purchases 
of United States securities in times of pecuniary 
disaster, though they contributed immensely to 
the credit of the Government, were not wholly 
patriotic. They were, to his far-seeing mind, in- 
vestments which were sure to pay. And he knew 
also that the very magnitude of his purchases 
-would, by strengthening public confidence, insure 
the profitable returns he sought. Still, there is no 
room for doubting the sincerity of his attachment 
to the country of his adoption. 

This fortunate accumulator of millions took 
very little from his hoards for the promotion of 






STEPHEN GIRARD. 149 

his personal ease and physical enjoyments. He 
lived in a plain mansion, simply furnished, and 
standing in the midst of warehouses, where the 
din of business, the rolling of heavy wheels, and 
the city's noisiest roar, constantly filled his ears. 
His table was plentifully but not luxuriously sup- 
plied. As he grew old it was extremely simple. 
He gave no parties, invited none to share his 
hospitality except now and then an individual 
from whom he had reason for believing he could 
extract information which would be useful to him. 
He worked incessantly at his business, rising at 
three or four o'clock and toiling until after mid- 
night. His keen eye inspected every department 
of his complicated business, from the discounting 
of a note to the building of a ship or the erection 
of a building. His only recreation was his gar- 
den, his farm at Passyunk, or the training of his 
birds. His life was coined into work. Its only 
real pleasure was derived from the accumulation 
of the money which was to make his name 
immortal. 

In 1830 the sight of his eye grew so dim that 



ISO VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

it was both difficult and dangerous for him to 
grope his way along the familiar streets where he 
transacted business. But so obstinately self-reli- 
ant was he, that he refused the aid of an attend- 
ant. He paid dearly for this obstinacy; for, one 
day as he was going home from his bank, he was 
knocked down by a wagon on a street-crossing. 
A gentleman seeing him fall rushed to his assist- 
ance. But before he could reach him the plucky 
old merchant was on his feet shouting, "Stop 
that fellow ! stop that fellow !" 

He was badly hurt Nevertheless, he persisted 
in walking home. When his physician came his 
face was found to be seriously wounded. His 
right ear was almost entirely cut off. His eye 
was entirely closed. His entire system had re- 
ceived a violent shock, from which it never 
recovered. His wound healed, but from that time 
his body began to waste, his face grew thin, and 
his natural force began to abate. His strength 
was sadly impaired, and when, in December, 
1 83 1, he was attacked by a prevailing influenza, 
his worn-out system succumbed. The disease 



STEPHEN GIRARD. 151 

touched his powerful brain. He became first 
insane and then insensible, until, on the 26th of 
December, 1 831, this old man of eighty-two rose 
from his bed, walked across his chamber, returned 
almost immediately to his bed, and then, placing 
his hand upon his burning head, exclaimed : 

"How violent is this disorder! How very ex- 
traordinary it is !" 

After this he lapsed into an unconscious con- 
dition, and while in this state his naked soul 
passed into the presence-chamber of that Infinite 
One whose worship it had neglected, and whose 
existence it had boldly denied. 

Thus ended that busy life, which began in 
poverty, and which had yielded its possessor a 
fortune of ten millions of dollars. Surely, if wealth 
and the power it wields be the real crown of life, 
Stephen Girard must be accorded high rank 
among the mighty men who win magnificent 
victories over the adverse circumstances of an 
obscure birth. He sought riches, not as a miser 
who gloats with low delight over his glittering 
gold, but as a man ambitious to make his name 



152 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

imperishable. His ambition was satisfied. His 
ten millions, invested as directed in his will, 
which is itself a marvel of worldly wisdom, is 
accomplishing his life -long desire. So far as 
human foresight can perceive, Girard College will 
keep the name of this wonderful man before the 
eyes of men through the coming ages. 

Nevertheless, we count this victor over the 
mighty obstacles which stand between a penniless 
cabin-boy and the ownership of millions a van- 
quished man. Bringing his life into the " light 
of the glory of God which shines from the face 
of Jesus Christ, " we are compelled to pronounce 
it a miserable failure. We do not find either 
Christian faith or Christian morality in it. As to 
faith, he had none; for he was an atheist, and 
gloried in his disbelief of all revealed truth. As 
to morality, his biographer informs us that he was 
an unchaste, profane, passionate, arbitrary, ungen- 
erous, unloving man. His apparent philanthropy 
was so veined with selfishness that it was rarely 
ever exhibited except under conditions which se- 
cured publicity. And even the college which 



STEPHEN GIRARD. 153 

perpetuates his name proclaims, by its prohibition 
of religious instruction, his hatred of "the only 
name given under heaven among men whereby 
we can be saved." It is true that his will en- 
joins instruction in morals; but it is heathen, not 
Christian, morality that he intended; and, if the 
letter and spirit of his remarkable will were strictly 
carried out, the graduates of Girard College would 
leave its walls as ill instructed in the principles 
of genuine morality as were the disciples of Soc- 
rates or the followers of Confucius. The only 
roots on which pure morals can grow are faith in 
our Heavenly Father and his divine Son, and love 
which is born of that precious faith. That faith 
is forbidden to be taught, and its divinely ordained 
teachers are prohibited entrance within the walls 
his unsanctified ambition built. Happily for the 
orphan boys who congregate there, the spirit of 
that antichristian will can not be executed in this 
Christian country. Its letter is no doubt respected; 
but the ethics of the institution are not those of 
Voltaire, Rousseau, or Confucius, but of Jesus, 
whose life is the only "light of men." Hence, 



154 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

while his college may perpetuate his name, it will 
never cause mankind to love his character, nor to 
hope that he is one of that exalted host which 
ascended to heaven through much tribulation, and 
after washing their robes in the blood of the 
Lamb. 







VII. 



CHARLES LAMB, 



TO* (OtWal humorist. 



^)MONG the antiquities of our mother Eng- 
jjrj|| land's great metropolis, there is a collec- 



tion of cloistered buildings called the 
*Y A Temple, because some of them were built 
and occupied by the Knights Templars, so fam- 
ous in the Middle Ages. But since the time of 
Edward III they have been occupied by two 
societies of lawyers and law students, known as 
the "Inner Temple" and the "Middle Temple." 
These gentlemen have offices and apartments in 
this extensive property, which stretches from Fleet 
Street to the banks of the Thames, where its 
beautiful gardens delight the senses and offer 

155 



156 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

pleasant lounging places to the benchers and 
others who occupy its gloomy cloisters. 

In one of the chambers of the Inner Temple, 
on the 1 8th of February, 1775, was born a child 
who lived to win for his name an honorable place 
on the roll of old England's famous literary men. 
The name of the child was Charles Lamb. His 
father was a modest scrivener in the employment 
of a lawyer named Salt. He was the youngest 
of three children, John, Mary, and Charles, and 
spent the first seven years of his life in the com- 
parative seclusion of the Temple cloisters, and in 
the enjoyment of the moderate comforts supplied 
by his father's stinted income. There was, there- 
fore, very little in the circumstances of his birth 
to help him up the hill of distinction. 

When seven years old, his father obtained his 
admission into "Christ's Hospital," a famous 
boys' school, founded in 1552, by the gentle, 
pious boy-king, Edward VI, and generally known 
as the "Blue Coat School," on account of the 
peculiar dress worn by its pupils. 

Fancy a boy of seven, small for his age, of 



CHARLES LAMB. 1 57 

delicate frame, with a mild countenance, a clear 
brown, almost Jewish, complexion; one of his 
eyes is hazel, the other has specks of gray in the 
iris. This boy has a staid, grave aspect. He is 
clad, after the grotesque fashion of his school- 
fellows, in a long, blue coat, yellow stockings and 
vest, a red leathern girdle, a flat, black woolen 
cap, scarcely larger than a saucer, and a clerical 
neck-band. He is nervous and timid in his move- 
ments, and has an impediment in his speech. 
His step is plantigrade — that is, he walks on the 
soles of his feet. 

Such was little Charles Lamb, as he appeared 
when introduced to the hundreds of rude, unfeel- 
ing boys, who composed the noisy world included 
within the cloisters of Christ's Hospital. Know- 
ing the un mercifulness of healthy boys toward 
weak and peculiar ones, a thoughtful spectator 
would be inclined to anticipate a school life for 
young Lamb as crushing as that of Cowper's at 
Dr. Pitman's establishment. But it was far other- 
wise. This quaint child carried a talisman which 
threw a spell over his thoughtless schoolmates and 



158 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

made them all his friends. His amiability, his 
.sweetness of disposition, his quiet gentleness, 
were charms which the rudest among them could 
not resist. They subdued all disposition to harsh- 
ness, and won for him the rich guerdon of uni- 
versal kindness. 

This was assuredly a great moral victory, espe- 
cially as, owing to his nervous temperament and 
his habit of stuttering, he could not join in the 
sports of his classmates. "While others were all 
fire and play, he stole along with all the self- 
concentration of a young monk." That with such 
habits he could win and retain their affection is 
proof enough that he was very highly endowed 
with the magnetism of gentleness. 

Young Lamb passed some years at the Blue 
Coat School with credit. He was very apt at 
classical studies, and quite skillful in Latin com- 
position. His progress was such that he might 
have won a scholarship and gone to one of the 
universities, but for the impediment in his speech, 
which entirely unfitted him to be a clergyman. 
As scholarships were only given for this end at 



CHARLES LAMB. 1 59 

Christ's Hospital, and as his father was too poor 
to pay his expenses at a university, he reluctantly 
quitted the halls of education when fourteen years 
old, and entered upon the uncongenial duties of 
a clerkship, first at the South Sea House, and, 
after about two years, in the office of the East 
India Company. Here, for thirty-three years, he 
plodded at the accountant's desk, and while in 
this humble position he composed the genial 
"Essays of Elia," to which he chiefly owes his 
immortality in the literary world. 

It is more than probable that Lamb's name 
would never have been heard dropping from the 
lips of Fame, but for the influence of a school 
friendship. Coleridge, the poet and philosopher, 
was at Christ's Hospital with Lamb. The "in- 
spired charity boy," as the former has been 
called, won the enthusiastic admiration of the 
poor scrivener's meek little son. They became 
intimate friends, and saw each other occasionally 
while Coleridge was at the university. When he 
subsequently went to London, they met frequently 
at a little tavern known as the "Salutation and 



160 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

Cat." There Coleridge talked and Lamb listened, 
amid the fumes of tobacco and the unsavory- 
odors of beer and spirits, until long after they 
heard the chimes of midnight. The effect of these 
intellectual conversations was the quickening of 
Lamb's genius, which, owing to his native timid- 
ity, needed the impulse of an intensely energetic 
mind to rouse it to self-assertion and action. 
Years after, when dedicating his collected works 
to Coleridge, Lamb referred to these meetings, 
and said to this first and oldest friend: "You 
first kindled in me, if not the power, yet the 
love, of poetry and beauty and kindliness." 

Lamb's first attempts at authorship were made 
in 1797, when he was twenty-two years old. 
They consisted of a few sonnets and other verses, 
printed in a volume with some poems by Cole- 
ridge and a mutual friend named Lloyd. They 
attracted very little notice. The next year he 
wrote his little prose tale, "Rosamond Gray," 
which was more favorably received. Some time 
after he wrote "John Woodvil," a tragedy, which 
the critics cut up, and the theatrical men refused 






CHARLES LAMB. l6l 

to put on the stage. This was followed by "Mr. 
EL," a farce, which was played once and hissed 
off the stage. From 1807, and onward, he wrote 
much for the press; and his "'Specimens of En- 
glish Dramatic Poets," etc., received greater pub- 
lic favor than any of his previous publications. 
In 1820 he began those quaint, humorous, genial 
"Essays of Elia," which added greatly to his 
reputation among literary men, but, strange to 
say, did not circulate very freely during his life- 
time. "Since his death," says a recent reviewer, 
"the essays have proved an inexhaustible mine, 
and the collected works have arrived at least at 
a seventh edition." 

Lamb was indebted to his friend Coleridge for 
his introduction to the society and friendship of 
the literary giants of his times. But for Cole- 
ridge, it is scarcely probable that this poor, stut- 
tering clerk in the India House could have 
secured even notice from such brilliant writers as 
Southey, Wordsworth, Hazlitt, Proctor, Patmore, 
Wilson, etc. Once introduced, however, Lamb's 

fascinating genius won their admiration and 

11 



1 62 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

secured their friendship. He became their cor- 
respondent and companion, and, after 1808, drew 
around him, at his Wednesday-night parties, a 
coterie of wits and thinkers unrivaled, except at 
the grand dinners given, at the same period, to 
men of letters in the stately drawing-rooms of 
Holland House. 

Seeing that this son of a poor scrivener, this 
half-educated charity boy, this poor toiling clerk 
of a mammoth corporation, embarrassed as he. 
was by the sad condition of lfis sister, won a 
permanent and distinguished place in English 
literature, became the esteemed friend of many 
of the brightest lights of his generation, and the 
beloved center of an almost unequaled coterie of 
wits and authors, you will not question his right 
to be ranked with men who conquered their diffi- 
culties and crowned themselves with the laurels 
of victory. 

Trials are tests of character. No man can 
thoroughly know himself, or be truly known by 
others, but by his conduct under afflictions or 
temptations which severely strain his principles. 






CHARLES LAMB. 1 63 

We are not aware that Lamb was ever severely 
tested by unusual solicitations to wrong -doing, 
but his biographers have made it certain that few 
men ever suffered severer domestic affliction than 
he endured through forty years of his otherwise 
uneventful life. 

His sorrows began when he was scarcely twenty 
years old. Then his father sank into almost help- 
less dotage, his mother became impotent, the 
family resources grew limited and insufficient, his 
sister was consequently overworked, his own du- 
ties at the accountant's desk were irksome and 
distasteful, his only friend — Coleridge — was not at 
hand to cheer his spirits, his nerves were deli- 
cately strung, and, altogether, his burdens were 
too heavy for his strength. His brain reeled be- 
neath the unequal load. He became, for six 
weeks, the inmate of an insane asylum. This 
was a rude introduction, surely, to the responsi- 
bilities of manhood. 

But a still heavier and more lasting sorrow 
swelled his sensitive heart the following year. It 
came swift as an arrow, terrible as a destructive 



1 64 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

thunder-gust. He had recovered the right use 
of his reason, had settled down to his life-work 
with quiet resolution, was doing his best to make 
his parents and sister comfortable, and was even 
fondly dreaming of marriage with a " fair-haired 
maid" whom he loved, when the tragic event, 
which threw a cloud of sadness over the remainder 
of his life, burst upon him like a sudden blow 
from an invisible hand. 

Lamb had noticed that Mary, his sister, over- 
tasked with work, care, and anxiety, was growing 
nervous, and giving indications of insanity. He 
had even called on his physician, seeking advice 
with respect to her symptoms; but, finding him 
out, he had gone as usual to his office. About 
noon, a few days later, his poor sister suddenly 
seized a knife and made a fierce dash at her little 
serving-maid, who evaded the blow by running 
from her infuriated mistress. The helpless mother 
called on Mary to forbear. Instantly the daugh- 
ter, fiercely shrieking, turned upon the mother 
and plunged the knife into her heart. Lamb en- 
tered the room at this moment, and saw his sister 



CHARLES LAMB. 1 65 

brandishing the dripping knife over his mother's 
head. He also saw his helpless father sitting by, 
with a forehead bleeding from a wound inflicted 
with a table -fork, which the maniac girl had 
thrown at him in her fury. It was a shocking 
sight, which demanded instant action. Aided by 
his landlord, Lamb speedily disarmed his sister, 
and sent her to an insane asylum. 

In a few weeks she recovered her senses and 
recalled the awful scene. Happily for her peace 
of mind, her " sound judgment" enabled her "to 
distinguish between a deed committed in a tran- 
sient fit of frenzy and the terrible guilt of a 
mother's murder." 

Lamb, describing his first interview, after her 
return to sanity, in a letter to his then only 
friend — Coleridge — says : 

"I found her, this morning, calm and serene; 
far, very far, from a forgetful serenity, for she has 
a most affectionate and tender concern for what 
has happened. Indeed, from the beginning, 
frightful and hopeless as her disorder seemed, I 
had confidence enough in her strength of mind 



1 66 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

and religions principle to look forward to a time 
when even she might recover tranquillity." 

It is surprising that Lamb himself did not re- 
lapse into his former insanity under the pressure 
of this horrible affair. Probably his strong affec- 
tion for his sister saved him from so sad a fate. 
Sympathy for her gave tone to his mind. Instead 
of dwelling upon the spectacle of death which his 
eyes met on that fearful day, he thought of his 
poor Mary until his eyes ran with manly tears, 
and his heart swelled with a loving purpose to 
live and toil for her comfort. 

He describes two singular illustrations of his 
feelings and his mode of dealing with them at 
this critical juncture. 

i ' Within a day or two after the fatal one," he 
writes to Coleridge, "we dressed for dinner a 
tongue, which we had salted for some weeks in 
the house. As I sat down, a feeling like remorse 
struck me. This tongue poor Mary got for me, 
and can I partake of it now, when she is far 
away?" 

It then occurred to him that this feeling, if 



CHARLES LAMB. 1 67 

indulged, would become morbid. Every thing 
that reminded him of Mary would "awaken the 
keenest griefs," and, saying to himself, "I must 
rise above such weaknesses," he resolutely ate of 
the suggestive tongue. The will of the man thus 
curbed the feelings of the brother. 

Before his mother's burial his acquaintances 
and neighbors urged him, one day, to sit at table 
and eat with them. After some persuasion he sat 
down, when, he says, "my recollection came that 
my poor dead mother was lying in the next 
room — the very next room; a mother who, through 
life, wished nothing but her children's welfare. 
Indignation, the rage of grief, something like re- 
morse, rushed upon my mind. In an agony of 
emotion I found my way mechanically to the 
adjoining room, and fell on my knees by the side 
of her coffin, asking forgiveness of Heaven, and 
sometimes of her, for forgetting her so soon. 
Tranquillity returned, and it was the only violent 
emotion that mastered me, and I think it did me 
good." 

Both these incidents show the narrowness of 



168 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

Lamb's escape from that morbid state of mind 
which is the prelude to insanity. They also ex- 
hibit the intensity of his affections. 

But the noblest expression of his love for his 
sister was made subsequently, when the question 
arose between him and his brother what to do 
with poor Mary. As already stated, her mind 
began to recover its balance in a few weeks; but, 
in the judgment of her physicians, she was 
doomed to perpetual recurrences of mental aber- 
rations, and her safest home would be within the 
walls of an asylum. The authorities of the parish 
thought, in view of the great tragedy in which 
Mary had borne the conspicuous part, that it 
would not be safe to suffer her to go at large. The 
elder brother, a worldly, prosperous, and thor- 
oughly selfish man, agreed with the authorities, 
and protested against her liberation. But Charles 
set his heart upon it. He combated all opposers, 
and, by pledging himself to the support and care 
of his beloved Mary for life, he finally secured 
her release. Proudly as ever bridegroom led 
bride to the marriage altar, he conducted his 



CHARLES LAMB. 1 69 

restored sister to his cheerless home, which, by 
the recent death of his father, had been left soli- 
tary indeed. 

This was a beautiful sacrifice on the altar of 
fraternal love. Lamb's income at that time was 
only five hundred dollars per annum. Hence, 
the maintenance of his sister, who was destined 
to live "perpetually on the brink of madness," 
involved a renunciation, as he said in one of his 
poems, of 

"Vain loves, and wanderings with a fair-haired maid, 

who so long 
My foolish heart steeped in idolatry 
And creative loves." 

For his sister's sake he abandoned all thoughts 
of marriage with this unknown "fair-haired maid," 
*and consecrated himself to bachelorhood and 
Mary. And during forty years he faithfully kept 
his pledge to care for her. His devotion to her 
happiness was complete, and it never abated. 
When her frequent fits of insanity were coming 
on, he took her by the hand and led her, 
with touching tenderness, to the gates of her 
asylum. When she recovered, he joyfully con- 



170 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

ducted her back to his home. There he studied 
to minister to her tastes, to cheer her spirits, to 
promote her chosen pursuits, to ward off as long 
as possible the always impending attacks of her 
terrible delirium. So devoted was he that he 
never tasted a pleasure she could not share with- 
out sharp self-rebuke. He made her the com- 
panion of his rambles during his vacations so long 
as she could endure the fatigue of travel; when 
she could not, he gave up that form of enjoy- 
ment, and contented himself with such short 
rambles in the vicinity of London as she could 
share. 

Mary fully appreciated her brother's devotion, 
and reciprocated it, when in her right mind, with 
all the self-abnegation possible to the noblest type 
of sisterly affection. As her brother lived for her, 
so did she live for him. It is doubtful if human 
history affords a more perfect example of broth- 
erly and sisterly affection than that which bound 
the lives of Charles and Mary Lamb so beauti- 
fully together. It is painful to be reminded that 
this man, so devoted to his sister and so self- 



CHARLES LAMB. 171 

denying for her sake, was not also devoted to 
our adorable Redeemer, was not equally self- 
denying with regard to the essential virtues of 
temperance and respect to the divine name. 

Hitherto we have looked on the best side of 
Lamb's character. We have seen him kind, 
genial, successful in literary ventures, the cyno- 
sure of a select and brilliant circle of cultivated 
minds, and a model of fraternal, self-denying de- 
votion to the happiness of his unfortunate sister. 
Most sincerely do we wish that truth permitted 
us to leave his picture radiant with the soft light 
of these virtues and successes, unshaded by the 
dark colors of a solitary great fault, a model for 
the youth of all generations. But this, alas! we 
dare not do. If we did, his portrait would not 
be true to the life. To be so, it must receive the 
shadings which fall from the glaring vices of pro- 
fanity, intemperance, and irreligion. 

Few things are more shocking to a refined and 
religious mind than to hear the Divine name used 
as an expletive. Ordinarily, profanity is not the 
vice of cultivated and gentle souls, but of hard, 



172 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

coarse natures. An oath from a woman's lips 
falls with a sharp and unexpected pain upon the 
ear. It is almost equally startling when heard 
dropping from the tongue of a man of feeling. It 
is, therefore, peculiarly painful to an admirer of 
Charles Lamb to reflect that he was addicted to 
this disgusting vice. Both his conversation and 
his letters were habitually disfigured with profane 
expressions. 

His friend and biographer, Talfourd, animated 
by a desire to screen his reputation, and possibly 
a wish to protect public morals, expunged the 
obnoxious epithets from Lamb's letters. Refer- 
ring to this fact, a writer in the Westminster Review 
says: 

"Talfourd fell into an inexcusable error of 
judgment. Where he found strong expletives, 
and what seemed to him objectionable expres- 
sions, in his friend's writings, he thought to mend 
matters, and present Lamb in more fastidious 
dress, by garbling the text with an unscrupulous 
freedom that reminds us of the old commentators; 
and, to justify this liberty, Talfourd could not 



CHARLES LAMB. 1 73 

plead, as we learn from many independent sour- 
ces, that Lamb's writings belied his habitual man- 
ner and conversation. Mr. Carew Hazlitt attacks 
Talfourd on this point, and every one will agree 
with him." 

Not exactly. We both agree and disagree 
with Hazlitt. Talfourd did right in keeping the 
profanity out of Lamb's letters, that it might not 
corrupt public morals. He erred in not making 
full and distinct statement that he had performed 
the good work of expurgation, inasmuch as with- 
out a knowledge that Lamb was profane, his 
readers could not reach a just conclusion respect- 
ing his friend's character. 

There is no doubt of Lamb's habitual profan- 
ity. Whence the habit proceeded, how his kind 
and gentle nature could find pleasure in such a 
vulgar vice, is a perplexing question. We know 
of no better solution than to attribute it to the 
corrupting influence of his intemperance and irre- 
ligion. The former blunted his moral sensibili- 
ties, the latter destroyed his reverence for sacred 
things and hallowed names. 



174 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

That Charles Lamb's life was disfigured by 
excessive drinking is indisputable. His biograph- 
ers admit it, and do their best to veil it with 
various apologies. Of the extent of this evil habit 
it is difficult to judge. That he was not an aban- 
doned drunkard is rendered certain by his steady 
attention to his clerical duties through many 
years, and by his maintenance of respectability 
and working literary power down to the end of 
his days. We suspect, however, that he followed 
the then almost universal habit of drinking more 
or less daily — possibly to partial intoxication to- 
ward bed-time — and that occasionally he drank 
himself stupidly drunk. 

"I went to bed pot valiant," he says in one 
of his letters. In another he begs a friend to ex- 
cuse "some foolish behavior at Richmond. You 
knew me well enough before, that a very little 
liquor will cause a considerable alteration in me." 
In a graphic picture of a Wednesday night sym- 
posium at Lamb's house, Talfourd portrays him 
surrounded by Lloyd, Hazlitt, Burney, Liston, 
Kemble, Montague, and other wits, presiding 



CHARLES LAMB. 175 

like the symposiarch he was, and quaffing from 
the "vast jug of porter often replenished from 
the foaming pots which the best tap of Fleet 
Street supplied." And when the table had been 
cleared of its abundant beef, lamb, and potatoes, 
he called for hot water and the stimulating 
brandy, gin, and rum, under the evil inspiration 
of which the conviviality of his guests became 
more and more noisy, until their brains grew 
giddy and they staggered away during the small 
hours of the morning, leaving their well-steeped 
host to sleep away the effects of the drink which 
had first inspired and then stupefied him. 

Talfourd apologizes for his love of drink, by 
saying: "The eagerness with which he would 
quaff exciting liquors, from an early period of 
life, proved that, to a physical peculiarity of con- 
stitution was to be ascribed, in the first instance, 
the strength of the temptation by which he was 
assailed. This kind of corporeal need; the strug- 
gles of deep thought to overcome the bashfulness 
and the impediment of speech which obstructed 
its utterance ; the dull, irksome labors which hung 



176 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

heavy on his mornings, and dried up his spirits; 
and, still more, the sorrows which had environed 
him and which prompted him to snatch a fearful 
joy; and the unbounded craving after sympathy 
with human feelings, 'conspired to disarm his 
power of resisting when the means of indulgence 
were actually before him." 

This was all true doubtless. But what is its 
import? What is it but a confession that poor 
Lamb was a slave ? The pewter mug foaming 
with porter, the glass sparkling with ruby wine, 
or reeking with the fumes of alcohol, were his 
masters. They held this genial humorist, this 
gentlest of men, this most loving of brothers, this 
charming essayist, this man who won his way to 
literary fame, bound with gyves he could not 
break. Alas that so deserving a victor should be 
vanquished by such mean antagonists ! Why was 
it so? 

Had Lamb consented to wear the yoke of 
Christ in his youth, he would have been one of 
the most lovely and lovable men of his times; he 
would have found ample consolation in his great 






CHARLES LAMB. 1 77 

sorrow; he would have mastered what Talfourd 
charitably calls "a physical peculiarity of consti- 
tution,'' and have become not only the caterer 
he was to the intellectual tastes of cultivated 
minds, but a powerful contributor to the progress 
of experimental religion. His natural gentleness 
of disposition, his kindliness, his simplicity, his 
capacity of self-abnegation, needed but the in- 
spiration of the spirit of Christian love to make 
him one of the most attractive of Christian men. 

But Lamb was not a Christian, except in 
name. It was his misfortune to be educated a 
Unitarian of the Priestley school. We say mis- 
fortune, because it deprived him of that concep- 
tion of a Divine Redeemer which is essential to 
all saving faith, and started his mind on that 
career of doubt respecting the central truths of 
Christianity which, in his case, as in many others, 
terminated in absolute skepticism. 

Long before his death, he questioned, not only 

our Lord's divinity, but his doctrines also. To 

him human probation, the freedom of the will, 

the spirituality and immortality of the soul, were 
12 



178 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

unsubstantial theories, from which his mind re- 
coiled. He refused to ' ' contemplate another 
state of being." He chose to live in and for the 
present. His sympathies were consequently so 
narrowed that, though ever ready to minister to 
individual suffering brought directly under his 
notice, he was hostile to every enlarged scheme 
of benevolence. Do you wonder that he found 
no power to overcome his propensity for stimulat- 
ing drink? Is it surprising that he treated sacred 
things profanely? Do you not see that his vices 
vanquished him because he fought the battle of 
life in his own strength, and with weapons forged 
by his own hands? Had he cast himself on the 
Cross, armed himself with celestial weapons, his 
life would have been unstained, his character 
symmetrical, and his example a model for univer- 
sal imitation. 

Lamb's last years were spent as a pensioner 
of the India House, in ease, in enjoyment of 
literary society, and the care of his beloved and 
afflicted sister. He died quite suddenly, Decem- 
ber 27, 1834, in the sixtieth year of his age. 



CHARLES LAMB. 1 79 

Be not deceived. Lamb has had brilliant men 
for his biographers, who have striven to hold him 
up to public admiration by making his great vir- 
tues a cloak for his undeniably great faults. But 
their judgment will not stand before Him, who 
says of the virtues which sometimes flourish side 
by side with vices, in such characters as Lamb : 
" These things ought ye to have done, and not to 
have left the other undone ;" and of the vices: 
"No drunkard hath any inheritance in the king- 
dom of God;" "Swear not at all;" "And if thy 
right eye offend thee, pluck it out and cast it 
from thee; for it is profitable for thee that one of 
thy members should perish, and not that thy 
whole body should be cast into hell.'' 




VIII. 



EDGAR ALLAN POE, 



8tf)« 3Eitjjapp£ $o*t. 

MpJ||HERE are few young persons of intelli- 
fl^ll gence who have not heard that weird, 
<^E|§£ fantastic poem, "The Raven," or that 
* i lively, fascinating composition, "The 
Bells," recited by some fellow-student at school, 
or by the peripatetic elocutionist in some public 
hall. The author of these unique compositions 
won, during his life-time, multitudes of readers in 
his native land, and still greater numbers in Eu- 
rope, both for his fanciful rhymes and his prose 
writings. He soon passed away, but his produc- 
tions are still largely read, and some of them will 

probably retain a permanent place in English 
1 80 




EDGAR ALLAN POE. 



EDGAR ALLAN POE. l8l 

literature. He may therefore justly be ranked 
with those sons of genius who have won for 
themselves a lasting record on the rolls of fame. 

The story of his brief life is as melancholy as 
that of Chatter ton. He was the child of an un- 
wise marriage between a law student, named 
David Poe — a mere boy of eighteen — and Eliza- 
beth Arnold, an actress who fascinated him at 
Baltimore, where she was fulfilling a theatrical 
engagement. The student's family was of Norman 
origin, and had worn the crest of nobility for ages 
in Ireland. The pretty actress was probably of 
plebeian blood. They were married in 1806, and 
Edgar, our unhappy poet, was their second son, 
born, as is supposed, in Boston, February 19, 1809. 

Marriages originating in the rash impulses of 
passion, and hastily consummated, in utter disre- 
gard of the voices of prudence, rarely yield lasting 
happiness to the parties, or bring prosperity to 
their offspring. The reader will not, therefore, 
be surprised to learn that, in December, 181 1, 
the unfortunate actress, deserted by her thoughtless 
husband, died in great poverty at Richmond, 



1 82 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

Virginia, leaving three helpless children to the 
tender mercies of the charitable portion of society. 
The madcap father probably died shortly after. 
The little ones were adopted by respectable fam- 
ilies. Mr. John Allan, a Richmond merchant, 
took little Edgar to his home and heart. 

This was both a fortunate and unfortunate 
event for the bright little boy. It was fortunate, 
in that it rescued him from the fate of a poor 
social waif, introduced him into a home of wealth, 
secured him the means of liberal education, and 
brought him the love of a childless foster father 
and mother. It was unfortunate, in that these 
good things were perverted into evil influences by 
the fact that these kind-hearted people became 
foolishly fond of him. They petted him, pampered 
him, permitted him to have his own way in every 
thing, and thus speedily made him that unhappy 
creature which we call a spoiled child. 

The effect of this well-meant folly was apparent 
when the child was sent to school. There, in 
defiance of a known rule, he intruded upon the 
teacher's vegetable garden during recess. His 



EDGAR ALLAN POE. 1 83 

punishment was, having a carrot or turnip hung 
about his neck. He wore this badge of disgrace 
in a sullen mood until school was dismissed, then 
slipping out unobserved by his teacher, he ran 
home with the esculent dangling about his neck, 
and complained of the fancied indignity to his 
foster-father. The foolish man, instead of reprov- 
ing the boy, rushed to the room of the teacher, 
lectured her severely for what he unreasonably 
called an insult to his son, settled his school bill, 
and took the triumphant offender from the insti- 
tution. 

If this fact was typical, as we suppose it to be, 
of Mr. Allan's general method of dealing with his 
sprightly pet, one is not surprised that the boy 
grew up passionate, self-willed, and prepared to 
be the victim of circumstances. The cruelty of 
such fondness — it is not real love — is appalling. 

When seven years old, Edgar was taken to 
England by his foster parents, and placed under 
the care of Dr. Bransby, at Stoke Newington, 
near London. Concerning what he learned, or 
what was his behavior during the five or six years 



1 84 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

of his stay in this institution, little is positively 
known. But on his return to America he was a 
handsome boy, "with bright eyes, soft, clustering 
hair, and a face alive with expression." He was 
very sensitive, overflowed with self-esteem, was 
easily offended, and ever ready to avenge imag- 
ined affronts by impaling the offenders with satir- 
ical rhymes. These trashy verses his unwise 
foster-father praised extravagantly. He even read 
them to his friends as proofs of genius in his 
willful boy. But they could not be prevailed on 
either to admire or tolerate the ill-governed lad. 
"He is such a bad boy," some of them said when 
they forbade their own children to make him their 
companion. No doubt his influence over other 
lads was not good, but evil. His home training 
was making him tyrannical, false, and deceitful. 
Petting and unreasonable indulgence were by no 
means suited to the right development of such an 
impulsive boy. What he needed was the strong 
arm of discipline, regulated by the sweet force of 
wise paternal affection. It was his great misfor- 
tune not to feel the restraints of such an arm. 






EDGAR ALLAN POE. 1 85 

He was, however, highly favored with oppor- 
tunities for intellectual improvement. The best 
teachers in Richmond were employed to instruct 
him. In 1826 he entered the University of Vir- 
ginia. His progress and behavior while there 
have been covered with a cloud of uncertainty by 
the opposing statements of his biographers. We 
incline to the opinion, supported by Stoddard, 
that during the ten months he spent in that insti- 
tution he was on the whole a successful student, 
and that the vice of drunkenness, which finally 
ruined him, had not then become his master. But 
another passion equally fatal to his prosperity did 
enthrall him. He was a devotee of the card-table, 
and when he returned to the home of his foster- 
father his debts, chiefly gambling bills, amounted 
to two thousand dollars! 

The ingratitude of his nature was shown at 
this time, when his adopted mother, speaking to 
a friend in Edgar's presence, said: 

"Mr. Gilliet, what do you think of Edgar? 
His father has just paid an enormous sum for his 
debts in Charlotteville, and now here is a bill for 



1 86 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

quantities of champagne, and seventeen broad- 
cloth coats, which he has gambled away." 

"Yes," responded the reckless young man, 
"I went to see how much of the old man's 
money I could spend, and I have done it." 

The lad who could thus repay the kindness 
which in his childhood had snatched him from 
the hard lot of a social waif, and had treated him 
with excessive tenderness through his boyhood, 
must have possessed an exceptionally bad nature. 
Grant that he had been unwisely treated, yet a 
reply so utterly oblivious of moral principle, so 
reckless, so inconsiderate of his foster-mother's 
feelings, indicates a heart so uncommonly de- 
praved that it repels us. The wonder is that it 
did not alienate him from the affections of his 
patient foster parents. Indeed, there is some 
evidence that they did henceforth grow cool to- 
ward him, and that his time, during the ensuing 
three years, was not wholly spent under their 
friendly roof-tree. Where it was spent, and in 
what manner, is uncertain. 

Still Mr. Allan acted a father's part, and, as 






EDGAR ALLAN POE. 1 87 

the young man expressed a desire to be a soldier, 
procured his admission to West Point as a cadet. 
This gave him a rare opportunity to make himself 
a man. But, instead of improving it, he idled 
away his time, talked brilliant nonsense about the 
poets, drank brandy until his nerves were shat- 
tered, fretted at the jests played off upon him by 
his associates, neglected his studies, and, in 
March, 1831, after a few months of time thus 
wasted, was court-martialed, and "dismissed the 
service of the United States." 

The inexcusable folly of this wayward young 
man, in thus trampling upon a valuable privilege, 
seems to have broken the last link of affection in 
the heart of his long-suffering foster-father. Poe, 
therefore, found himself homeless, and without a 
profession. His prospect of regaining his for- 
feited place in the home of his boyhood was ren- 
dered hopeless by the fact that the grave had 
opened to receive the remains of the patient 
woman who had acted the part of his good angel. 
Besides this, Mr. Allan had married a second 
wife, and she had presented him with a child, 



1 88 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

who would inherit the fortune which Edgar had 
expected would one day descend to himself. His 
affairs had therefore assumed a serious aspect. 
Evidently, he must earn money, or be pinched 
by want. 

To relieve himself he appealed to the cadets, 
among whom he had acquired a questionable 
reputation as a writer of satirical squibs in jin- 
gling rhymes. He proposed to publish a volume 
of poems by subscription, at two dollars and fifty 
cents a copy. Influenced partly by pity, and 
partly by the expectation of getting some fun out 
of the thing, most of his old classmates paid him 
their money. Poe rewarded their generosity by 
imposing upon it. He seems to have had no 
sentiment of honor, and produced a cheap, badly 
printed volume of some fifty pages, filled not with 
the witty satires expected, but with crude, imma- 
ture compositions, which, though indicative of 
unfledged genius, could not command their respect. 
The reckless young brandy-drinker had failed to 
make the most of another good opportunity. He 
had made himself the butt for many a bitter jest, 



EDGAR ALLAN POE. 189 

and covered his already blasted prospects with 
deeper gloom. 

His next mad step was to return to Richmond 
and demand admission to the sick chamber of his 
foster-father. The new Mrs. Allan, fearing the 
effects of a scene on her husband's health, refused 
him the desired permission. He resented this ju- 
dicious refusal with such demonstrations of pas- 
sion that Mr. Allan, when informed of his unpar- 
donable conduct, utterly discarded him, and when 
he died, as he did three years later, he left no 
mention of the cashiered cadet in his will. This 
must have been a terrible disappointment to Poe, 
yet who can justly blame the much-injured foster- 
father? 

How he lived from this time until 1833 nis 
biographers do not satisfactorily tell us. But in that 
year he visited the office of the Satwday Visitor, 
in Baltimore, to claim a sum awarded to him as 
the winner of two prizes which had been offered 
by the publishers of that magazine for the best 
tale and the best poem. He appeared before the 
publishers, says Stoddard, "thin, pale, with the 



I90 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

marks of sickness and destitution in his face. His 
seedy coat, buttoned up tight to the chin, con- 
cealed the absence of a shirt. Less successful 
were his boots, through whose crevices his lack 
of hose was seen. Out at all elbows as he was, 
the gentleman w T as apparent in his bearing, the 
man of genius in his conversation. " His story 
won him the sympathy and aid of John P. Ken- 
nedy, the author. He was newly clothed, fur- 
nished with literary employment, and by his 
contributions to the Southern Literary Messenger, 
won in a year or two a fair reputation among 
readers of polite literature. In 1835, having 
removed to Richmond, he became editor of the 
Messenger, and was fairly in the way of earning a 
comfortable support and of redeeming his name 
from the youthful follies by which it had been 
stained. 

Alas for - his peace ! He had nursed an evil 
spirit among his appetites which had power to 
torment and destroy him. His love for strong 
drink was mightier than his will. It mastered 
him, and the publisher of the Messenger reluc- 



EDGAR ALLAN POE. 191 

tantly dismissed him from its tripod. In doing 
this the kind-hearted man, in reply to Poe's pro- 
mises of reform, wrote: "That you are sincere in 
all your promises, I firmly believe. But, when 
once again you tread these streets, I have my 
fears that your resolutions will fail, and that you 
will drink again till your senses are lost. If you 
rely on your own strength you are gone. Unless 
you look to your Maker for help you will not be 
safe. . . . How much I regretted parting from 
you is known to him only and to myself. I had 
become attached to you. I am still. I would 
willingly say return, did not a knowledge of your 
past life make me dread a speedy renewal of our 
separation. . . . You have fine talents, Edgar, 
and you ought to have them respected as well as 
yourself. Learn to respect yourself, and you will 
soon find that you are respected. Separate your- 
self from the bottle and from bottle companioncy 
forever. " 

This was wise counsel. Especially that portion 
of it which bade him seek divine help. Had Poe 
done this, even at that time, had he stretched 



I92 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

out his weak arm toward the offered hand of 
Heaven, he would have been lifted out of the 
ditch of self-degradation, and gained such a stand- 
ing on the rock of virtue as would have secured 
him peace and renown here and eternal felicity 
in the great hereafter. He chose to stand in his 
own strength. It failed him, and, as we shall 
see, his master passion destroyed him. 

While in Richmond his fair cousin, Virginia 
Clemm, a sweet-faced, gentle maiden, loved and 
married him. Her love for him was beautiful, no 
doubt; but their marriage under their circum- 
stances was a folly which brought with it a heavy 
entail of wretchedness to the wife during the ten 
years of their married life. The unfortunate lady 
died of consumption in 1848 at Fordham, near 
New York. 

The plan of this sketch forbids us to give the 
details of Poe's life from this point. It is enough 
for our purpose to state that his talents secured 
him the editorial tripod first of The Gentleman's 
Magazine and then of Graham's Magazine. Sub- 
sequently he wrote for The Home Journal, the 









EDGAR ALLAN POE. 1 93 

American Review, and The Broadway journal. His 
prose stories, such as "The Narrative of Arthur 
Gordon Pym " and "William Wilson," added 
greatly to his reputation, in Europe especially, 
and together with his poems, particularly that 
weird production, "The Raven," finally made 
him a literary celebrity. In spite of his way- 
wardness, recklessness, passionateness, and love 
of the bottle, he won a recognized position among 
American poets and writers of fiction. 

But, though Poe was now a lion in literary 
circles, he was an unhappy man. His vice kept 
him poor. His heart was a stormy sea of turbulent 
passions, and, at the death of his sweet, loving 
wife, of bitter griefs. It grew, to use his own 
words, "ashen and sober, as the leaves that were 
crisped and sere." It had no resting-place in 
God. The Pantheistic notions on which he fed 
it failed to inspire it with either hope or joy. 

In 1848 he lectured in various places, with 

moderate success; wrote what Stoddard describes 

as that "wonderful piece of verbal melody, 'The 

Bells,'" with other poems, for the magazines, and 

13 



194 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

continued to yield more and more to the fascina- 
tions of the bottle and bottle companions. His 
literary friends helped him again and again out 
of the abysses of pecuniary destitution into which 
he fell, and a Richmond widow, "whom he had 
loved in his youth," returned his affection, and, 
in 1849, promised to be his bride. What unwis- 
dom there often is in woman's love! 

But the love of drink overmastered all his 
other affections. He started from Richmond to 
make certain preparations for his marriage. At 
Baltimore a friend invited him to take a drink. 
He did so, drank himself delirious, and was put 
out of the train, to wander up and down the 
streets of Baltimore. It was election time. The 
members of a rowdy political club took possession 
of him, gave him more drink, and caused him, 
like Samson among the Philistines, to make sport 
for them. 

He was finally taken to a hospital, where, 
when his consciousness returned, he looked wildly 
round, and asked : 

"Where am I?" 



EDGAR ALLAN POE. 1 95 

The attending physician kindly replied: 
"You are cared for by your best friends." 
He then lay still awhile, silently reflecting on 
his situation; after which he looked up, with an 
air half wild, half melancholy, and replied: 

"My best friend would be the man who would 
blow out my brains." 

This cry of remorse mingled with despair was 
^speedily followed by the victory of death over his 
delicately organized body. He died the victim 
of his own uncontrollable appetite for drink. 

Alas, poor Poe! Though he was his own de- 
stroyer, one can not help mingling much of pity 
with the censure which his strange career pro- 
vokes. Never had any poor waif, thrown as he 
was by the death of his natural protectors upon 
the charity of society, richer opportunities given 
him for self- improvement. Seldom has a boy 
been more highly endowed with natural gifts. 
True, he was a "spoiled child" for a year or two 
while in the home of his foster-father. But surely 
he had training enough in his English school to 
counteract that brief period of indulgence. As 



\q6 vanquished victors. 

he grew in intelligence he must have learned 
that, though the bent of his mind was strongly 
toward evil, a life of virtue and religion was oblig- 
atory upon him. He did know that the Divine 
One had offered grace, aid, and rest to such as 
he; but he chose to combat his strong, passionate 
appetites and his temptations in his own strength. 
He would conquer by his own unaided arm, or 
die. The sad result of this proud but foolish 
purpose was that he died in shame and misery, a 
recognized poet, but a vanquished man. 

"Behold all ye that kindle a fire, that compass 
yourselves about with sparks : walk in the light 
of your fire and in the sparks that ye have kin- 
dled. This shall ye have of mine hand: ye shall 
lie down in sorrow." 




IX. 



HAYDON, 




®fje SLmlitinug Artist. 

jflOME seventy-five years ago, in Plymouth, 
England, a stationer's breakfast hour was 
disquieted by the sudden entrance of his 
son partially dressed. The lad was about 
eighteen years old, slenderly built, with a ruddy 
complexion, black, curly hair and handsome fea- 
tures. His manner was excited. His azure gray 
eyes flashed fiercely as he stood, with a copy of 
Sir Joshua Reynold's Discourses under his arm, 
and, addressing his father, said: 

"Sir, I wish to go to London and enter the 
Royal Academy as a student!" 

His startled father put down his coffee-cup, 

and exclaimed: "Eh — what?" 

197 



I98 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

The excited boy repeated his wish. His father 
rejoined: "Pooh! nonsense!" 

His uncle, who had stopped cracking his egg 
and was looking into the lad's face, as if he were 
questioning his sanity, repeated the father's word, 
"nonsense," and, taking up his egg, coolly pro- 
ceeded with his breakfast. 

Then the father burst into a fit of laughter, 
which, as the boy persisted in his entreaty, 
changed into an outburst of passion. This caused 
the lad's mother to cry, and the whole breakfast 
party was in an uproar, except the uncle, who 
quietly "finished his breakfast." 

This excited lad was Benjamin Robert Hay- 
don, subsequently distinguished as an artist. The 
father was a respectable stationer, doing a good 
business in Plymouth, and was trying to educate 
and train this, his only son, to follow his craft. 
To this "end, he had sent him first to the Plym- 
outh Grammar School, and afterward to an 
accountant in Exeter, to be initiated into the 
mysteries of book-keeping. In 1801, when the 
lad was nearly sixteen, he had been "installed 



HAYDON. I99 

in his father's counting-room" and " brought face 
to face with business in detail." 

But young Haydon hated business. The bent 
of his mind was toward drawing and painting. 
This taste had been developed when he was 
about eight years old, by Dr. Bidlake, the head 
master of his school, and had grown with his 
growth into a ruling passion. The good doctor 
-had done this, not so much by the aid of books 
as by taking the boy out into the lovely scenery 
of Devonshire and showing him how to observe 
the wonderful works of God and to mark the out- 
lines of grandeur or beauty in shady glen and 
waving coppice, in gloomy forest and blooming 
orchard, in rock-edged cove, in wide-spread, 
rippling bay, and in the surges of the stormy sea. 
This training had made the boy an impassioned 
worshiper of nature. 

He had still another teacher, one Fenzi, a 
binder of books, in his father's employ. This 
Neapolitan talked to him of the glorious paintings 
of Raphael and Michael Angelo until the boy's 
soul was enraptured. Baring his arm and stretch- 



200 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

ing it out, this humble but enthusiastic admirer 
of the old masters would say : 

"Do not draw de landscape, draw de feegorre. 
Master Benjamin. " 

The boy's fancy grew wild and strong under 
these inspirations. Being resolute, self-willed, and 
even pugnacious, he both vexed and puzzled his 
father and friends. They did not understand him, 
had no faith in his creative power, laughed at 
him, reasoned with him, appealed to his pecuni- 
ary prospects, begged him to give up his " delu- 
sions, " and not let "so fine a business" as that 
of his father "pass out of the hands of its found- 
ers for the mere want of a little self-denial. 7 ' 
Vain endeavors, these. The soul of the boy was 
a willing captive, self-bound to the chariot of art. 

He fell sick, was blind six weeks, recovered 
in part, but had so far lost his natural sight as to 
be ever after incapable of seeing without spec- 
tacles. Was he discouraged? No. He would 
be the first painter who had succeeded without 
natural sight. Brave young soul! His uncle said: 
"The boy must be mad." He was mistaken. 



HAYDON. 20 1 

The lad was not mad. except so far as the stu- 
pidity of his friends was driving him by their 
opposition to a state of excitement which seemed 
like the verge of madness. 

This condition of mind culminated in the 
breakfast scene already described. That led his 
good mother and only sister to sympathize with 
him. Then the mother began gentle pleadings in 
the boy's behalf with the father, who, at length, 
became apprehensive that further opposition to his 
son's enthusiastic desire might work some lasting 
mischief to his character. Hence, in May, 1804, 
he consented to his entrance as a student at the 
Royal Academy in London. 

Young Haydon rejoiced greatly over this vic- 
tory. By obstinate persistence he had overcome 
his father's wishes respecting his vocation. Had 
he done right? Ought he to have submitted to 
the paternal authority? We think he should have 
done so during his minority. True, his father 
was not wise in refusing cheerful permission to 
his enthusiastic boy to follow his bent, in striving 
to force him into a career for which he not only 



202 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

had no taste, but which he positively hated. 
Nevertheless, a parent's well-intentioned unwisdom 
does not destroy a son's obligation to obedience, 
and, therefore, it was young Haydon's duty to 
remain patiently in his father's counting-room 
until he became of age. It is by no means cer- 
tain that, by doing so, he would have been less 
an artist; while it is likely that a year or two 
more of attention to business would have prepared 
him so to manage his pecuniary affairs as to have 
escaped the monetary troubles on which his peace 
and life were wrecked and broken. No path is 
safe for the youthful traveler to walk in but that 
of duty. 

Our young artist, though ambitious to the last 
degree, was no idle dreamer. His aim was lofty, 
presumptuous even, but he set himself to its at- 
tainment by work, hard, incessant work. He 
read, he studied anatomy, he drew from early 
morning until the midnight hours. He sought no 
society, no amusements, no relaxation. He even 
neglected his correspondence. 

"What is Benjamin about, that he never 



HAYDON. 203 

writes?" asked his father of a relative who had 
visited him in London. 

"Oh, he is mad, certainly; no doubt about it. 
I found him lying on the floor studying anatomy, 
with Albinus before him. He is certainly mad," 
was the relative's reply. 

Yes, the young man was mad, though he was 
no maniac. His was the noble madness of that 
inspiration which is begotten of high purpose. 
To paint with that idealistic fidelity to nature 
which characterized the great artists of antiquity 
was the aim that possessed him, soul and body. 
To find the secret of their success, and to apply 
it to the creation of grand instructive paintings, 
was the object of his absorbing toil. This was a 
species of madness which, unfortunately for him, 
young Haydon's relatives were not able to com- 
prehend. 

All this hard work the young artist did unaided 
for months, until his overtasked body protested. 
Then he sought acquaintance with the artists of 
the day — with Northcote, Opie, West, Fuseli, and 
Wilkie. Most of them applauded his purpose to 



204 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

paint historical pictures, and admired his draw- 
ings. But Northcote bluntly, almost prophetically, 
exclaimed : 

1 ' Hees-torical painter ! Why, ye '11 starve — with 
a bundle of streaw under yer heead. ... Ye 
must paint portraits heere." 

"But I won't, sir," replied young Haydon, 
resolutely. 

"Ye waant? Ye must" rejoined the shrewd 
old artist. 

Northcote knew from bitter experience that 
historical painting, or high art, as Haydon termed 
it, was not appreciated by the rich men of Eng- 
land. Neither was it popular with the ruling 
spirits of the Royal Academy. Hence it did not 
pay; and with most artists bread, of necessity, 
was the first consideration. But Haydon dared 
to adopt it as his line. If there was no existing 
school to patronize it he would found one, even 
at the risk of the starvation predicted by the 
queralous Northcote. There was moral grandeur 
in this resolution, but poor Haydon lived long 
enough to learn by the bitterest suffering that the 



HAYDON. 205 

attempt to achieve it could only be made at the 
price of starvation. 

In 1806, after only four years of study in 
London, Haydon began his first historical picture, 
on a canvas six feet by four feet. Its subject 
was, " Joseph and Mary resting on the road to 
Egypt." It cost mm $ lx months of constant 
work. In 1807 he sent it to the Academy exhi- 
bition. His friend Fuseli secured it a good posi- 
tion. It was "highly approved, and considered 
to show great powers of drawing, expression, and 
color, which was pronounced to be properly 
flesh." It sold for about six hundred dollars, 
which was considered a high price for a student's 
picture. 

More than its price was the reputation it pro- 
cured him. It made Sir George Beaumont and 
Lord Mulgrave his friends. They invited him to 
their dinners, introduced him to the "first men 
of the day," and otherwise distinguished the 
"Devonshire lad." This was highly gratifying 
success, won by merit and hard study. 

These aristocratic associations neither intox- 



206 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

icated him with vanity nor tempted him to relax 
his studies. On the contrary, he toiled on, not 
in artistic studies merely, but in the daily study 
of French, Italian, Latin, and Greek authors, 
with a view to qualify himself for easy intercourse 
with the dignitaries with whom he was now called 
to associate. Nor did he merely dabble in these 
literary studies. His motto was, "Thorough in 
every thing." He mastered whatever he under- 
took. 

Being called into Devonshire at this time by 
his father's illness, he found that he had already 
won reputation there as an artist. He was con- 
sequently overrun with applications to paint por- 
traits at about eighty dollars each. He began to 
make money fast. Pactolus flowed at his feet. 
The way to competence was plainly open before 
him, but, fearful lest success in this department 
should turn him from his devotion to "high art," 
the chosen mistress of his affections, he resolutely 
eschewed it, and, returning to London, gave him- 
self to the production of "Dentatus crushed by a 
Rock," which he was commissioned to paint for 



HAYDON. 207 

his friend, Lord Mulgrave. This rejection of 
portrait-painting was the turning-point in his for- 
tune. It was a golden opportunity nobly thrown* 
away — the sacrifice of his monetary prospects at 
the shrine of a cherished idea. Had he paused 
to consider that, by first making himself more or 
less pecuniarily independent through portrait- 
painting, he would have been better prepared to 
- fight successfully for his idea, he would have es- 
caped most of the misery which embittered his 
subsequent life, and have achieved certainly as 
much, if not more, for "high art," than he actu- 
ally did by this unnecessary sacrifice. But Haydon 
was a thorough idealist. He fancied himself 
strong enough to overcome the realistic tastes of 
.his times, and to reap a golden harvest through 
his anticipated victory. He was mistaken. His 
mistake cost him a martyr's pangs, and plunged 
him into an untimely grave. 

While working on "Dentatus," Haydon's at- 
tention was directed to the famous Elgin marbles, 
those beautiful creations of Greek art rescued 
from the ruins of Athens by the enterprise of Lord 



208 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

Elgin. The study of these figures taught him his 
own deficiencies, and, laying aside his palette 
and brush, he spent three months in mastering 
those " exquisite fragments." Then, resuming his 
pencil, he finished Dentatus in season for the 
Academy Exhibition in 1809. 

This picture Wilkie and others said "would 
make Haydon's reputation in any school in Eu- 
rope." It was a "fine picture, full of life, like a 
bit of embodied lightning." But, by the conniv- 
ance of envious artists, instead of being hung in a 
good position, it was placed in a dark anteroom. 
This was a dastardly deed intended to hide the 
merits of the picture and throw a cloud over the 
professional reputation of the young painter. 
Haydon was deeply mortified. Rich amateurs 
who had formerly boasted of his merits now dis- 
owned him, and his studio Was deserted. He 
resented this treatment with scornful jests, and 
went down into Devonshire with his friend Wilkie 
for rest and recreation. 

Sir George Beaumont and Lord Mulgrave 
stood up for him bravely under these mortifica- 



HAYDON. 209 

tions. The former commissioned him to paint a 
scene from Macbeth. With strange, unpardon- 
able obstinacy which he lived to regret, he quar- 
reled with his patron about the size of the picture, 
assumed that the commission was withdrawn, and 
went on with it in his own way. This was an 
inexcusable folly in a poor artist, but it was char- 
acteristic, "because," as he afterward said, "my 
Inind wanted the discipline of early training.' ' 

A ray of cheering light fell upon his path at 
this time. The Academy offered a prize of some 
six hundred dollars for the best historical picture 
by a living English painter. At Lord Mulgrave's 
suggestion he put his Dentatus in competition, 
and won the prize. 

Hay don's next performance was suicidal to a 
man in his position. It was an attack, in three 
letters, upon the prevailing notions on art educa- 
tion. These articles fell like bombs in the midst 
of England's art world. The noise of their explo- 
sion was tremendous. But the artists stood by 
each other and by their Academy; and the luck- 
less Haydon was almost universally condemned. 

14 



2IO VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

He had given able utterance to unpalatable 
truths. His reward was a blasted reputation, the 
treatment of a pariah, the loss of patronage, and 
the deepening shadows of prospective bankruptcy 
falling ominously upon his professional path. 
Unwise artist ! 

Haydon, undaunted by the gigantic difficulties 
which bestrode his path, gave himself to his work 
with a determination really grand. His "Mac- 
beth," though confessedly superior to other paint- 
ings sent to the Academy in competition for a 
prize, was refused its merited award, because of 
the three fatal letters. Disgusted, but not dis- 
heartened, he gave himself up to diligent work 
upon another great picture, "The Judgment of 
Solomon." Through twenty long months he toiled 
in his forsaken studio, living, at times, on pota- 
toes and salt, and working himself almost blind. 
In 1 814 he sent the picture to the Water-color 
Society Exhibition. It caused a sensation. In 
spite of the attempts of his enemies to talk it 
down, it was pronounced "the finest historical 
work ever painted by an Englishman," sold for 



HAYDON. 211 

upward of thirty-six hundred dollars, made him 
the lion of the season, and gave him a high repu- 
tation in every artistic circle throughout Continen- 
tal Europe. 

During the next five years our indefatigable 
artist labored incessantly upon another grand pic- 
ture, "Christ's Entry into Jerusalem." To his 
money-seeking brother artists it seemed the height 
of folly in him to spend five years on a single 
painting. But he did it for the love he bore to 
art, enduring the ills of poverty meanwhile; con- 
senting to live, partly on the bounty of a few 
friends, partly on the tuition fees of pupils whom 
he instructed, and partly on the proceeds of notes 
of hand discounted by rascally usurers at the rate 
of sixty per cent. Poor Haydon ! Those terrible 
notes became the tormentors of his life, and they 
finally dug his grave. 

When this great picture was finished, it was 
exhibited in Egyptian Hall. Crowds of the nobil- 
ity, artists, and dilettanti flocked to see it on the 
opening day, but none dared venture an opinion 
until the great tragic actress, Mrs. Siddons; 



212 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

"walked into the room like a Ceres or a Juno," 
and, after viewing it awhile, said oracularly: 

" It is completely successful. . . . The pale- 
ness of your Christ gives it a supernatural look." 

These words became the oracle of the distin- 
guished crowd. Society echoed them. Thirty 
thousand people visited the picture. Almost every 
body said it ought to be purchased for the 
National Gallery. His enemies prevented that, 
and he took the picture to Scotland. There 
twenty thousand people paid to see it, and Scot- 
land's noblest minds did honor to the painter. 
Still no purchaser was found for this "stupendous 
picture." 

The proceeds of its exhibition, and the sale of 
his "Macbeth" for a little over a thousand dol- 
lars, somewhat improved Haydon's pecuniary 
condition, but did not wholly free him from 
the galling chains of extortionate money-lenders. 
Nevertheless, he sought to taste the sweets and 
solaces of domestic life by marrying, in October, 
1 82 1, "a very lovely young widow," whom he 
tenderly loved, but who brought him no fortune. 



HAYDON. 213 

The "Raising of Lazarus" was his next great 
picture. It cost him two years of faithful and 
"rapid work. They w r ere years of sore pecuniary 
trials. His debts increased continually. His 
hungry creditors besieged the door of his studio. 
He sought temporary relief again by means of 
those fatal notes of hand at sixty per cent 
Twice, to escape arrest, he persuaded some pu- 
pils to indorse his notes, which they were com- 
pelled to pay. This was certainly wrong. It 
delayed, but did not finally prevent, the sheriff's 
visit. Amidst manifold anxieties he finished the 
picture. Its exhibition was profitable, but its 
success tempted a heartless creditor to put in an 
execution. The artist was dragged to the deb- 
tor's prison, his goods, his books, his casts, his 
sketches, all the materials of his art sold at 
auction, his pupils scattered, and his excellent 
wife sorely distressed. In spite of his fame, his 
skill, his many artist and noble friends, he was a 
ruined man. It would have been a light matter 
for a few of his wealthy admirers to save him 
from all this humiliation and loss by giving him 



214 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

liberal commissions and advancing their price. 
They professed to pity him. Perhaps they did, 
but their sympathy did not move them to offer 
effectual assistance. They praised the artist, but 
left the man to fight his way out of his sore 
troubles or perish. He fought on bravely, until 
the strain was greater than nature could endure, 
and then died. 

Discharged from the debtor's prison, Haydon 
found his home desolate. His spirit, though 
grievously bruised, was not yet conquered. None 
of his titled friends coming to help him with com- 
missions, his necessities compelled him to resort 
to what he regarded as the drudgery of portrait- 
painting and the composition of small pictures. 
After some two years he was cheered by orders 
for historical pictures, and painted "Pharaoh Dis- 
missing Moses,'' "Venus and Anchises," and 
"Alexander and Bucephalus." These noble pic- 
tures were exhibited, and so highly praised by 
many of his old enemies, the academecians, that, 
moved by the generosity of his own great nature, 
he sought membership in the Royal Academy. 



HAYDON. 215 

To their everlasting disgrace its narrow-souled 
members rejected him. 

Again, in 1827, lacking constant employment, 
he fell into the vortex of hopeless indebtedness. 
The burden of over eight thousand dollars of 
debts hung like a mill-stone about his neck and 
sunk him. The harpies of the law clutched him 
and forced him to spend two wretched months in 
the debtor's prison. His noble friends, on hear- 
ing of his misfortune, met, voted that he merited 
public sympathy and aid, and subscribed six 
hundred dollars. If their sentimental talk could 
have been coined into gold, our unhappy artist 
would have been enabled to bid defiance to attor- 
nies, sheriffs, and gaolers. But, since it was little 
more than useless froth, he had to suffer and 
struggle on in unspeakable anguish of mind. 

Out of prison once more, he found a few 
untitled friends who helped him to bread while 
he painted his "Mock Election " and his "Chair- 
ing the Member." The former of these admirable 
pictures was exhibited with moderate success, and 
purchased by the King George IV for some 



2l6 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

twenty-five hundred dollars. The latter, after 
some delay, was sold for half that sum to a pri- 
vate gentleman. 

We have not space to follow the remaining 
details of this unfortunate man's career. Nor is 
it necessary. It was little else than a repetition 
of his previous experiences. He resolutely main- 
tained his purpose to introduce a better school of 
art than then existed in England, he kept up his 
conflict with the ruling spirits of the Academy, he 
was continually thwarted and opposed by them 
in return, he vainly strove to obtain governmental 
employment, he lectured on art to approving 
crowds, and continued to produce great paint- 
ings, but with insufficient remuneration. At last, 
in 1845, h^ s truly 'great mind bent before the 
fierceness of the winds of ceaseless misfortune. 
The deep shadows of death filled his cheerless 
studio with gloom. His sorely tried heart was 
disquieted. He toiled at his canvas with exhaust- 
less zeal. To produce a series of six historical 
pictures was his purpose. "The Banishment of 
Aristides" and "Nero Watching the Burning of 



HAYDON. 217 

Rome' 5 were already completed, when, perhaps 
for the first time in his life, his beloved art lost 
its power to soothe his soul and keep down the 
specters of want, domestic sorrows, prosecutions, 
arrests and imprisonments, which continually 
haunted his steps. He prayed, reviewed his life, 
read the "Confessions of St. Augustine," sent 
him by his friend, Dr. Hook, wrote, very truly, 
that "the first step toward fitting the soul to 
stand before its Maker is a conviction of its un- 
worthiness, v but none of these things cheered 
him. The gloom thickened. 

He exhibited the last-named pictures at Egyp- 
tian Hall. "Tom Thumb," Barnum's dwarf, was 
in the next room to Haydon's pictures. The pub- 
lic, led by coroneted heads and titled leaders of 
opinion, rushed to the levees of little Tom, but 
were oblivious of the merit of Aristides and 
Nero. This exhibition, instead of relieving, sunk 
our unfortunate artist more deeply in the mire 
of debt. 

Again he renews the struggle to keep the sheriff 
from his door, working enthusiastically on his 



2l8 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

pictures. Presently he discovers that it can not 
be done. He owes fifteen thousand dollars. A 
friend appears, offering him the loan of five thou- 
sand. He is cheered, meets his friend to receive 
the money, and is told that he can not have 
it. This bad news disheartens him again. He 
drinks deeply of hotel wines, and returns to his 
home sick in heart, body, and brain. 

In his despair he now appeals to Sir Robert 
Peel for help from the public funds. The great, 
rich man sends him two hundred and fifty dol- 
lars. No wonder the artist feels his " heart sink/' 
his brain " confused," and that his wonted sleep 
forsakes his pillow. No wonder that he writes, 
June 2 1 st, " Slept horribly; prayed in sorrow; got 
up in agitation." 

On the 22d of June he went out early in the 
morning and bought a pistol. Returning, he 
breakfasted alone, and then, going to his studio, 
locked himself in, wrote "letters to his children, 
his will, and his last thoughts." About half-past 
ten his wife and daughter knocked at his door. 
"Who's there?" he asked, fiercely, but did not 



HAYDON. 



219 



admit them. Shortly after, "as if regretting the 
tone in which he had spoken," he went to his 
wife's room, kissed her affectionately, lingered as 
if he wished, yet dared not, to utter something 
that was on his mind, and then returned to his 
room. There he wrote in his journal these mel- 
ancholy words : 

"God forgive me. Amen." 

"Stretch me no longer on this tough woild." 

Then, with sinful resolution, he violently cut 
the silver cord of mortal life and rushed unbid- 
den into the presence of Him whose awful voice 
speaking from amidst the terrors of lightning and 
thunder-girt Sinai says to every human soul : 
"Thou shalt do no murder!" 

The shock of this terrible deed fell with 
deadly force upon the lost artist's household, con- 
sisting of his widow and three children. "Two 
lovely girls and three boys had sunk under the 
distresses of their home." The surviving daugh- 
ter, a very beautiful girl, who was the first to 
discover her father's body, fell beneath the ter- 
rible blow, and filled an early grave. The widow 



220 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

lived but a few years more. The sorrows of her 
life bore her down to the gates of death before 
her time. 

The story of the artist's disastrous end sent 
a thrill of pain through the nation, and he, whose 
genius had been so poorly rewarded while he 
lived, was followed to his grave by "an. enor- 
mous crowd." 

liaydon was over sixty years old when he 
brought his unhappy life to this miserable end. 
He is described by his own son as having been, 
at fifty, "a handsome, fresh-colored, robust little 
man, with a big bald head, small ears, aquiline 
features, a peculiarly short upper lip, and a keen, 
restless, azure gray eye. . . . He was a 
very active man; motion was his repose. In fact, 
he lived in a hurricane, and fattened on anxiety 
and care." He was "prudent and economical " 
in his personal expenditures, generous to his 
friends, a devoted husband, a faithful father, 
always watching over the morals and education 
of his children, and ever striving to make them 
ambitious, but not low and sordid in their aims. 



HAYDON. 221 

Haydon was indomitable, buoyant, and hope- 
ful. His art absorbed, possessed him. He loved 
it supremely. He found his chief happiness in it. 
He toiled at his pictures with unremitting dili- 
gence, sparing no labor either in their preparation 
or execution. His paintings were highly esteemed 
by the best judges of art. Unquestionably he 
ranks high among great painters. But he was in 
advance of his times. The artistic taste of Eng- 
land was not sufficiently cultivated properly to 
estimate his productions, and, therefore, he was 
not fairly remunerated for them. No doubt he 
sadly lacked worldly prudence when he refused 
the profits of portrait-painting, and when he made 
open war upon the ideas and practice of the 
artists who ruled public opinion in the Royal 
Academy. Had he restrained his passion for 
high art until he had made himself pecuniarily 
independent, he would have escaped the most 
embittering trials of his life and have accom- 
plished more than he did toward the triumph of 
his ideas. But, instead of possessing his ideas, 
he permitted his ideas to possess him, and that 



222 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

fact plucked out the eyes of his common sense, 
and made him, Samson-like, an object of cruel 
sport to the Philistines. Nevertheless, considered 
as a painter, he was self-made, original, superior 
to his contemporaries, and generally conceded to 
hold no mean rank in the constellation of great 
painters. He must, therefore, be esteemed a vic- 
tor in the race for renown. Was he a Christian ? 
No doubt he was religious after a certain fash- 
ion, but that he was a disciple of Jesus is by no 
means evident, either in his autobiography or in 
his biographies. The former indeed forces the 
conviction on the reader that his art was his 
God. His prayers seem but the breathings of 
his ambition to be accounted the great apostle 
of his art. They certainly did not bring him that 
essential evidence of a renewed nature — self- 
mastery. Not that he was immoral. He was 
not; for all the other passions of his nature were 
swallowed up by his great master passion. Never- 
theless, he was insufferably proud, impatient of 
contradiction., scornful of competitors, not very 
observant of the Sabbath, given to attendance at 



HAYDON. 223 

the theater, and was, in short, a man of the 
world. The tragic ending of his life, so deliber- 
ately conceived and executed, is melancholy 
proof that, in his struggles with the pecuniary 
difficulties which were mainly the offspring of his 
own imprudence, he was a vanquished man at 
the last. His name will be preserved on earth, 
but there is very little or no reason for hoping 
that it will be found written in the "Lamb's 
Book of Life." 



X. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 




|||BOUT a century and a half ago, there was 
a youthful party at the residence of a 
gentleman in Elphin, Ireland. Among 
them was a boy, scarcely nine years old, 
who entertained the company by dancing a horn- 
pipe. This boy's figure being short and clumsy, 
and his face discolored and disfigured by the 
effects of a recent attack of small-pox, the fiddler 
laughingly remarked : 

"That boy is like JEsop dancing." 
The little fellow, seeing that this invidious 
comparison, frequently repeated by the man of 

catgut and resin, made him the laughing-stock 

224 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 225 

of the party, presently turned upon his waggish 
tormentor, and retorted : 

"Our herald hath proclaimed this saying: 
See ^Esop dancing, and his monkey playing!'* 

This repartee, so singularly smart for a child, 
turned the laugh against the fiddler, and actually 
led to an important change in the life and pros- 
pects of the boy. Hitherto his parents had not 
intended to give him a liberal education; but this 
precocious display of wit led them to change their 
plans, and to place him under teachers who were 
qualified to prepare him to enter a university. 

This clumsy little wit was no less a personage 
than the famous Oliver Goldsmith, whose ram- 
bling life was like a romance, whose good-natured 
whimsicalities both charmed and vexed his friends, 
and whose writings hold a classic rank in English 
literature, and won a place for their author's 
name, among the children of genius, on the walls 
of Westminster Abbey. Let us trace his career, 
and study his character. 

Oliver Goldsmith was born in November, 1728, 
but his exact birthplace, like that of another dis- 
15 



226 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

tinguished Irishman, Lord Wellington, is uncer- 
tain. One of his biographers says it was at 
Pallas, another affirms it was at Elphin. He was 
the second son of a poor Irish clergyman, whose 
hard fortune was somewhat improved, shortly 
after Oliver's birth, by his presentation to the 
vicarage of Kilkenny-West. 

Oliver's father, owing to his poverty, resolved 
at first to give little Noll only such education as 
might fit him to acquire a trade. Hence he sent 
him to a village schoolmaster^ whose habit of 
telling his pupils wild, romantic stories did more 
to fill the boy's naturally eccentric mind with 
erratic notions than with sound knowledge. Nev- 
ertheless, his precocious quickness was such as to 
make him a prodigy in general estimation. His 
fond mother pleaded with her husband; other 
admirers of the witty lad tendered pecuniary 
assistance, and therefore Oliver, after passing 
through the hands of several instructors, found 
himself, when seventeen years old, entered as 
" sizar," or "poor scholar/' at Trinity College, 
Dublin. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 227 

Up to this time Oliver, though by no means a 
dull student when he chose to apply himself, had 
won a higher reputation as a leader in boyish 
sports and mischievous tricks than for superior 
scholarship. He had been a shy, awkward, 
whimsical, eccentric, fun -loving, idle, thoughtless 
boy. Nevertheless, occasional flashes of humor 
which had escaped his lips had caused a very 
general impression in the minds of his friends 
that the rare diamond of genius lay hidden in 
his soul. They sent him to college with high 
expectations that scholastic studies would develop 
great powers, and make him a distinguished man. 

Unfortunately for Goldsmith, his college tutor, 
named Wilder, was either too dull or too stub- 
bornly attached to mathematics and logic to per- 
ceive either the bent of his pupil's mind or his 
rare latent ability. Goldsmith could luxuriate in 
classical studies, like a bee in a flower-garden, 
while logic, ethics, and mathematics were his 
abomination. Instead of humoring his prefer- 
ences, Wilder abused him with passionate coarse- 
ness in presence of his class, calling him stupid, 



228 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

ugly, awkward, and ignorant. The effect of this 
wrong treatment was to bring the young man's 
worst characteristics into dangerous activity. He 
had always been inclined to indolence, mirth, 
and social fun. He now made his aversion from 
Wilder an excuse for neglecting his studies, and 
for seeking the society of idle and dissipated 
young men. This was a serious mistake on his 
part — a fault which held within itself the seeds 
of many sorrows. 

An event occurred when he was half-way 
through his college course, which ought to have 
sobered him, and have led to his resolute devotion 
to study. This was nothing less than the death 
of his worthy father, and the consequent cutting 
off of the slender remittances upon which he had 
subsisted. To keep him at the University, his 
uncle and other friends had to step forward with 
contributions, which, however, were so irregular 
and scanty that poor Oliver was often reduced to 
such straits as should have taught him valuable 
lessons of economy and prudence. 

But to extract wisdom from his own misfor- 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 229 

tunes was an art which Goldsmith never learned. 
Thoughtless obedience to his impulses was his 
rule of life. Hence, we find him engaged in a 
college riot, for the purpose of rescuing a fellow- 
gownsman from the bailiff, which cost him a 
public admonition, and ought to have taught 
him to curb his evil impulses. But it did not. 
Shortly after he happened to win a college minor 
prize, worth about six dollars. Instead of using 
this honor as a spur to increased study, he per- 
verted it into a weapon with which to wound his 
own reputation, actually spending the money in 
paying for a supper and dance in his own room, 
to which, in defiance of college rules, he invited 
persons of both sexes. The quick ear of his 
tutor caught the sounds of revelry \ and he rushed 
into his chamber, whipped him, and "turned his 
astonished guests, neck and heels, out of doors. " 
This indignity, added to hatred of his tutor, 
decided him to attempt a still madder prank. 
He resolved to run away both from college and 
country. To effect this, he sold his books and 
clothes, and then, with characteristic folly, loitered 



230 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

about Dublin until he had spent all his money- 
save a single shilling. 

With this shilling he started for Cork, but was 
soon so reduced, by hunger, fatigue, and destitu- 
tion, that he was glad to write to his brother, 
confessing his folly, and begging his aid in effect- 
ing his return to college. His brother responded 
kindly, and secured his restoration to his alma 
mater, after suitable humiliation. 

Among the numerous freaks of his college life 
was one which illustrates both his good-nature 
and his improvidence. He met a poor woman, 
with five children, one evening. Her sad story 
of destitution so touched his generous nature that, 
having no money, he took her to the college gate, 
gave her his blankets, and some of his clothing. 
Then, after going to bed, and finding it cold 
without the blankets, he cut open his bed and 
slept among the feathers. In this comical condi- 
tion he was found the next morning by a college 
friend, with whom he had promised to take 
breakfast. 

But in spite of his indolence, improvidence, 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 23 1 

conviviality, and insubordination, Goldsmith finally 
managed to gain his degree of Bachelor of Arts, 
" two years after the regular time." Besides the 
minor prize already mentioned, he had taken 
4 'one premium at a Christmas examination, " for 
literary merit. But, on the whole, neither he nor 
Burke, who was his contemporary at the Uni- 
versity, "had given much promise of future 
celebrity." Owing more to the faults of his char- 
acter, which prevented its assiduous cultivation, 
rather than to any merely natural deficiency, his 
genius was destined to flower late. Instead of 
nourishing it as he had opportunity at the pure 
fountains of knowledge, his perversities of dispo- 
sition led him to seek its nutriment in the paths 
of vagrancy and adventure, as we shall here- 
after see. 

Goldsmith's unsatisfactory university career 
had greatly weakened, if not wholly destroyed, 
the faith of his family and friends in his ability as 
a genius. His father was dead, his brother was 
only a poor Irish curate, and his uncle Conta- 
rine, who alone retained some confidence in his 



232 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

intellectual resources, was not rich enough to do 
much toward helping him into a profession. 
Hence the erratic young man found himself 
standing on the threshold of the great world, in a 
state of embarrassing uncertainty respecting the 
future. Having failed to improve his first oppor- 
tunities, the doors leading to prosperity were 
closed against him by that avenging Nemesis 
which always haunts the footsteps of unfaithful 
youth. 

Happily, the kind heart of his uncle Conta- 
rine clung to the wayward young man. He 
invited him to his home, and urged him to enter 
the ministry. Goldsmith, who had not the slight- 
est religious qualification for the sacred office, 
objected at first, not from conscientious scruples, 
but because he could not endure the thought of 
wearing a " black coat" and a "long wig," which 
was the clerical costume in those days. Finally, 
he yielded this prejudice, and at twenty-one began 
the two years' probation which must be passed 
before he could be ordained. 

Never did a candidate for holy orders pass his 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 233 

probation in such unseemly pursuits as did this 
thoughtless young man. Instead of studying the- 
ology, he read little besides novels, plays, poetry, 
travels, and biography. Much of his time was 
wasted in rustic sports, and, worse still, he made 
himself notorious as a convivialist in the company 
of drinking roysterers at the "little inn of Bally- 
mahon." When the time came for his ordination 
he presented himself to the bishop arrayed in 
brilliant scarlet breeches! For this, and other un- 
known reasons, he was very properly rejected. 

His uncle Contarine, though discouraged, did 
not wholly despair of his impracticable nephew, 
but procured him a situation as tutor in the family 
of an Irish gentleman. Oliver spent a year in this 
position, and then, disgusted with its restraints, he 
quarreled with his employer, quitted his duties, 
and, with a horse and one hundred and fifty 
dollars, set off, like a knight of the olden time, in 
search of adventures. 

Scarcely aware of his own purposes, he rode 
to Cork, sold his horse, and took passage for 
America. While waiting for a fair wind, he spent 



234 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

his time and wasted his money among some jovial 
fellows whom he met; and when, after three 
weeks, the wind became fair, he, with his gay- 
associates, was carousing at some country inn. 
The ship sailed, and left him behind. 

He had now but about thirteen dollars left. 
With this sum he bought a sorry little pony, 
which he humorously named Fiddleback, and 
with only one dollar in his pocket set out for his 
mother's home. After some queer adventures he 
made his appearance at the maternal door, where 
he was received as a prodigal son. That fond 
lady and all his friends had been deeply anxious 
for his safety. Now that he was with them again, 
their gladness at seeing him once more was suc- 
ceeded by vexation at his folly. But this he 
speedily allayed by the good-natured whimsicality 
with which he related his adventures. 

His uncle now proposed that he should study 
law, to which proposal he made no objection. 
The good old gentleman again opened his scanty 
purse, gave him two hundred and fifty dollars, 
and sent him off to London with instructions to 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 235 

enter upon his duties at the Temple. Oliver set 
out with good intentions, no doubt, but when he 
reached Dublin he fell in with one of his old 
boon companions, who led him into a gambling- 
house and stripped him of his last penny. 

We do not wonder that he was too much 
ashamed of his incorrigible weakness to inform 
his friends of the destitution to which this new 
folly reduced him. Fortunately for him, they 
heard of it, and, with inexhaustible kindness, 
invited him home again. 

But something must be done for this young 
man, whose lack of manly firmness made him the 
sport of every temptation which addressed itself 
to his vagabond impulses. What shall we do with 
him ? was the despairing inquiry of his much-tried 
friends. Finally, they advised him to study med- 
icine. He consented at once, and, when twenty- 
four years old, arrived in Edinburgh, and entered 
himself as a medical stndent in the University of 
that city. 

He spent two years in Edinburgh, giving some 
time and attention to medical lectures, but more 



236 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

to the orgies of bottle companions. He then 
proposed to finish his studies at Paris and Ley- 
den. His uncle's unfailing purse again furnished 
him with about one hundred and sixty dollars. 
With this sum in his pocket he set out for Leith, 
intending to sail thence for Holland. 

Again his impulse swallowed his intention; 
for, finding six jolly companions at his inn about 
to sail for Bordeaux, he foolishly embarked for 
that port for the sake of their society. Stress of 
weather drove her into Newcastle-upon-Tyne, 
where he and these strangers went ashore for a 
revel. While laughing over the bottle, they were 
all arrested and thrown into prison, because the 
six were Scotchmen in the service of the French. 
Goldsmith, like poor Tray, being in bad company, 
shared their fate, at least for a fortnight, after 
which he procured his release. 

Freed from durance vile, he next embarked 
for Rotterdam, whence he proceeded to Leyden. 
There for a year he gave some attention to med- 
ical studies, but more to general literature. Still 
his bad impulses ruled him. The gambler and 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 237 

the boon companion tempted him to dissipation, 
and, being very scantily supplied with funds from 
home, he was often penniless, and obliged to re- 
sort to various shifts to escape absolute destitu- 
tion. Happily for him, a fellow - student, named 
Ellis, discovered his "innate merits, " and saw 
beneath his vagabond habits "the feelings of a 
gentleman and the information of a scholar." 
This generous gentleman often loaned him money, 
and finally, finding him stripped of his last shil- 
ling by gamblers, offered him further aid only on 
condition of his leaving the scene of temptations 
which he had not strength to overcome. 

Accordingly, this weak child of genius accepted 
a loan with which to pay his traveling expenses to 
Paris. But again his impulse led him out of the 
path of common sense and ordinary prudence. 
Before leaving Ley den, he rambled into the gar- 
den of a florist. There he saw a fine display of 
costly bulbs, for which, at that period, there was 
a prevailing mania in Holland. It occurred to 
him that his uncle Contarine was an admirer of 
tulips, and that to send him some bulbs would be 



238 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

a grateful and delicate recognition of his long- 
continued liberality. Without further deliberation 
he purchased some choice bulbs, paid for them, 
and then recollected that he had spent nearly 
every shilling of the money which he had bor- 
rowed to pay his expenses to Paris. 

What was he to do? He was ashamed to con- 
fess his folly to his indulgent friend. Pride pre- 
vented him from giving up his journey. His only 
alternative was to start on foot, with one spare 
shirt, his flute, and about five dollars in his 
pocket; and this he actually did, and thus com- 
menced his wanderings as a "Philosophic Vaga- 
bond." Was ever a man of genius more unpar- 
donably improvident than this far-famed Oliver 
Goldsmith? 

Goldsmith for the next two years lived a va- 
grant life, "pursuing novelty and losing content." 
He wandered first to Paris, where he attended 
medical lectures for a short time. He next ram- 
bled into Germany and Switzerland. Then he 
strolled through Italy, back again to France, and 
thence across the Channel to England, where he 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 239 

found himself, as he says, "without friends, rec- 
ommendations, money, or influence." A hard 
lot, truly, for a man of genius, twenty-eight years 
old; but whom could he justly blame besides 
himself? 

On the Continent he had lived by various vag- 
abondish expedients, but chiefly by singing songs 
and playing lively tunes on his flute to the peas- 
antry of Flanders and France. Sometimes he 
had found entertainment in monasteries and col- 
leges, where his pleasing and instructive conver- 
sation secured him a cheerful welcome. But 
none of these devices availed him in England, 
and for a while we find him earning a scanty 
living in a band of strolling players; and, when 
he was at his lowest point of destitution, he was 
only too glad to lodge among the "beggars of 
Ax Lane," in London. Poor Goldsmith! To 
what indignities did his follies compel him to 
submit ! 

At length his circumstances began to brighten 
somewhat. He obtained the situation of usher in 
a boys* academy, but soon threw it up in disgust. 



240 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

Next he became a chemist's assistant. Then an 
old college friend accidentally stumbled upon him, 
loaned him money, and persuaded him to set up 
as a physician. While pursuing this profession, 
with indifferent success, he was introduced to the 
booksellers, became a proof-reader, and formed 
some literary acquaintances. His next step was 
to take temporary charge of a school ; after which 
he became contributor to the Monthly Review, on 
which he drudged for his bread some five months. 
Then, quarreling with its niggardly proprietor, he 
broke off his connection with it, and looked round 
anxiously for better things. 

His value as a literary contributor was by this 
time known to several publishers, and he soon 
found plenty of work, though with poor pay, and 
little increase of popular reputation; still his ne- 
cessities kept his pen busy, and when, in 1759, 
his first important production, "An Inquiry into 
the State of Polite Literature/' appeared, his ex- 
traordinary merits as an author began to be recog- 
nized by the literary magnates of the metropolis. 
Dr. Smollett, editor of the British Magazine, 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 24I 

Newbery, a noted publisher, and others, became 
his friends, his pecuniary means increased, and, 
in 1 761, Johnson, the " Great Cham" of the lit- 
erary world, said "Goldsmith was one of the first 
men in existence as an author." 

But while he was winning reputation among 
literary men, he was still unknown to the great 
public, and still doomed to struggle with his gaunt 
. old enemy, poverty. His lodgings were mean, 
and his pecuniary straits very distressing. One 
day he sent an urgent note to Johnson, begging 
him to hasten to his relief. The gruff but kind- 
hearted king of the literary world sent him a 
guinea, and speedily followed his gift in person. 
On arriving, he found Goldsmith violently scold- 
ing his landlady for having put him under arrest 
for non-payment of his rent. Yet, distressed as 
he was for lack of money, the improvident fellow 
had already spent part of Johnson's money for a 
bottle of wine! After soothing his passion by 
persuasive words, Johnson asked him what he 
proposed to do. Goldsmith then produced the 

now celebrated novel, the "Vicar of Wakefield." 
16 



242 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

His friend looked it over, saw its merits at a glance, 
bade the irate landlady not to proceed to extrem- 
ities until he returned, and hastened with the 
captivating manuscript to Newbery, the publisher, 
to whom he sold it for the paltry sum of three 
hundred dollars. This timely relief enabled Oliver 
to pay his debt; but so unconscious was Newbery 
of the value of the unrivaled manuscript that he 
laid it aside until its author had won celebrity by 
another production. 

The work which made Goldsmith known to an 
admiring world was his celebrated poem, "The 
Traveler," in which he gave beautiful expression 
to the many observations he had made and treas- 
ured up while on his vagrant wanderings over the 
Continent of Europe. Its "serene beauty, easy 
grace, sound good sense, magic numbers, and oc- 
casional elevation," took the reading world as 
by storm, and lifted the author from the position 
of "bookseller's drudge" to a literary celebrity 
scarcely second to that of Johnson. The public 
bought it eagerly. Charles Fox pronounced it 
"one of the finest poems in the English Ian- 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 243 

guage." Johnson said it was the finest poem that 
had appeared since the days of Pope, and it still 
retains a very high rank in English literature. Its 
publisher, Newbery, reaped a golden harvest from 
its sale, but to its now illustrious, yet still improv- 
ident, author it brought only the pitiful sum of 
little more than one hundred dollars! Such 
meanness as Mr. John Newbery exhibited in this 
transaction deserves the contempt of every gen- 
erous mind. 
1 
Goldsmith's name was now surrounded with 

the aureola of a brilliant fame. Men of distinc- 
tion, both in social and literary circles, sought his 
acquaintance. He became one of the founders 
and attractions of the celebrated Literary Club. 
His reputation rose still higher when the " Vicar 
of Wakefield" appeared. His emoluments in- 
creased. His plays, "The Good-natured Man," 
and "She Stoops to Conquer," though not re- 
markably successful on the stage, paid him well. 
His "Deserted Village" added to his reputation 
as a poet. His histories of England and Rome, 
and his fascinating work on "Animated Nature," 



244 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

brought him considerable sums of money. Had 
he possessed ordinary prudence, he might have 
risen above his life -long pecuniary embarrass- 
ments. But of prudent forethought he had none. 
His expenses always exceeded his income. Not 
only did he expend much money on his personal 
expenses, but he also criminally wasted large sums 
at the gambling-table. His kindly impulses, too, 
became the instruments of his embarrassments, by 
moving him to give to every applicant who put 
on the appearance of distress, or who could in- 
vent appeals which touched his quick sensibilities. 
Hence it came to pass that the golden fruits which 
grew upon the boughs of his remarkable genius 
yielded him no more real exemption from pecun- 
iary straits than did the poverty-stricken vaga- 
bondism of his earlier days. Though royally 
endowed with intellectual gifts, yet in the prac- 
tical duties of real life he was always a child. 

Perhaps it was in mercy to his many weak- 
nesses that Providence cut him off in the prime 
of life. A nervous fever, brought on by a chronic 
local disease and mental distress, prostrated him 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 245 

toward the end of March, 1774. On the 4th of 
April he expired, a few hours after saying to his 
physician that his "mind was ill at ease." His 
remains were quietly interred in the Temple 
burying -ground. His monument is in Westmin- 
ster Abbey. Would that we could add, his soul 
enjoys the rest of the Redeemed! 

Washington Irving says: "His religion has 
been called in question by Johnson and by Bos- 
well: he certainly had not the gloomy hypochon- 
driacal piety of the one, nor the babbling mouth- 
piety of the other, but the spirit of Christian 
charity breathed forth in his writings, and illus- 
trated in his conduct, gives us reason to believe 
that he had the indwelling religion of the soul." 

We must warn the young reader against this 
estimate of Goldsmith's religious character, inas- 
much as it is contradicted by the tenor of his 
entire life. The charitable romancist of Sunny- 
side evidently mistook Goldsmith's careless good- 
nature for that discriminating charity which is the 
fruit of the "religion of the soul." There is not 
a particle of evidence, either in his writings or in 



246 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

his actual life, that Goldsmith ever had a clear 
conception of that divine life, originating in that 
new spiritual birth, which is the essence of the 
Christian religion. Neither did he bring forth the 
" fruits of the Spirit" in his conduct. From first 
to last he was a rollicking convivialist, a vain, 
improvident, thoughtless man. Though not habit- 
ually either a drunkard or a gambler, he never- 
theless drank freely and gambled frequently. His 
tastes and pursuits were worldly. His will was 
too weak to keep his impulses under the guidance 
of his judgment and conscience. Had he been a 
man of stronger appetites and passions, his inabil- 
ity to control himself would have left him the 
victim of every species of sensual temptation. 
He was not addicted to the lowest vices, because 
his natural temperament did not incline him in 
their direction. And in his last moments, though 
he did confess that his mind was ill at ease, he 
died, giving no sign of true repentance or tri- 
umphant faith. Surely, such a life and death are 
not consistent with the possession of that "in- 
dwelling religion" which gives rest to the weary, 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 247 

strength to the weak, comfort to the disconsolate, 
victory to the tempted, and purity to -the sinful. 
Be not misled, therefore, youthful reader, by the 
false judgments even of so fascinating a writer as 
Irving. Weighed in the balances of the Gospel, 
even his life, beautiful as it was in its morals, may 
have been found wanting in that spirituality which 
is characteristic of the Gospel's ideal man. But, 
be this as it may, poor Goldsmith's life was such 
that we must mourn over him as a victor who, 
though successful in the arena of literary strife, 
failed to win the imperishable crown offered by 
our Lord to all who, by " well -doing, seek for 
glory, honor, and immortal life." 




XI. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, 

BJ* &ktptu anir $ ott 

f§jj§|l|NE fine morning in the Spring of 1811, an 
uncommon scene was enacted in the com- 
mon room of University College, Oxford, 
*Y England. The master of the institution 
and two or three of his " fellows " or professors 
appeared there, wearing grave, if not indignant, 
expressions on their countenances. Very soon a 
well-dressed young man entered the apartment. 
His figure was tall, slender, and delicate. His 
head was small, and covered with a thick growth 
of bushy brown hair. His complexion was of the 
purest red and white. His eyes were large and 

blue, and his face long rather than oval. His 
248 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 249 

expression was animated and enthusiastic. He 
stooped so much that his height was not at first 
apparent to an observer, and "he looked" says 
De Quincey, "like an elegant and slender flower, 
whose head drooped from being surcharged with 
rain." 

To this youth the master of the college showed 
a little pamphlet, or tract. Speaking in stern 
tones, he demanded: 

"Are you the author of this book?" 

The young man's eyes flashed with angry fires, 
as he replied : "I beg you to inform me, sir, for 
what purpose you put that question ?" 

The master, evading this counter question, 
repeated his inquiry with vehemence, "Are you 
the author of this book?" 

"If I can judge by your manner, sir," rejoined 
the young man, with an air of proud defiance, 
"you are resolved to punish me if I should ac- 
knowledge that it is my work. If you can prove 
that it is, produce your evidence; it is neither 
just nor lawful to interrogate me in such a case 
for such a purpose. Such proceedings would 



250 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

become a court of inquisitors, but not free men 
in a free country." 

To this untimely bravado the master responded 
in tones of sternest authority: 

"Do you choose to deny that this is your 
composition ?" 

"I will not answer any questions respecting 
that book," said the youth, with dogmatic firmness. 

"You will not?" 

"No, sir." 

"Then you are expelled," cried the master in 
a loud voice; "and I desire that you will quit 
college to-morrow morning at the latest." 

Upon this, one of the professors handed the 
stubborn student a written paper, saying, "Here 
it is." 

The paper contained the sentence of expulsion 
in due form, under the seals of the college. The 
young man took it with proud contempt, and left 
the room. But that contempt speedily gave place 
to a sense of disgrace. The sentence wounded 
him deeply, and he hurried to his chamber in 
such a state of agitation that his slender frame 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 25 I 

quivered with emotion. A fellow-student, who 
was waiting for him there, struck with his dis- 
turbed aspect, eagerly inquired : 

"What is the matter?" 

"I am expelled! I am expelled!" was the 
response, as soon as he was able to speak. Then, 
after relating the incident just described, he sat 
on the sofa shaking his beautiful head, and ex- 
claiming with convulsive vehemence : 

"Expelled! expelled!" 

The' next morning this youth rode to London, 
in company with another student who had shared 
both in his offense and punishment. Going to 
the lodgings of a friend, at four o'clock in the 
morning of the succeeding day, he rapped at his 
door, saying in a cracked voice : 

"Medwin, let me in, I am expelled — I am 
expelled for atheism !" 

Who was this youth who, though not yet 
nineteen years old, was expelled from his col- 
lege for the grave offense of spreading atheistic 
opinions ? 

His name, was Percy Bysshe Shelley, afterward 



252 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

distinguished for his rare poetic genius, and noto- 
rious for his defiant skepticism. Let us now take 
a glance at his birth and the incidents of his 
boyhood. 

Young Shelley was descended from an ancient 
and aristocratic family. He was the eldest son 
of Sir Thomas Shelley, and was born in the family 
mansion at Field Place, Sussex, England, August 
4, 1792. Here, in the society of his eldest sis- 
ters, he spent the earliest years of his unhappy 
life. His first instructor was Mr. Edwards, a 
clergyman, who served as tutor to the Shelley 
children. When ten years old he was sent to an 
academy at Brentford, which had for its principal 
"a hard-headed Scotchman " named Greenlaw. 
From that institution he was removed, after two 
or three years, to Eton. At eighteen, he entered 
University College, Oxford, from which he was 
expelled, as described above, before the expir- 
ation of his first year, for writing and circulating 
a tract in defense of the monstrous dogmas of 
atheism. 

There is something so shocking in the idea of 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 253 

a mere boy entering the lists in defense of such 
unnatural doctrines, that one feels curious to 
know the influences which led to it. Looking at 
young Shelley's early life, we find that he was 
chiefly led to the formation of his skeptical opin- 
ions by the unguided workings of his own pecul- 
iar mind. In his early boyhood he was left too 
much to himself, and to the indulgence of his 
own wayward and precocious fancies. His father 
was a bad moralist, and utterly failed to perform 
that part of a parent's duty which binds him to 
guide the thoughts and watch over the actions of 
his child. Moreover, the boy's first tutor lacked 
force of character, and did little for him beyond 
inducting him into the elements of Latin and 
Greek. His master at the academy had a strong 
enough character, but was passionate, determined, 
and utterly devoid of those elevated feelings 
which enable a teacher to win his pupil's affec- 
tions, and develop his good qualities of heart and 
brain. At Eton he was still without the guidance 
of superior and sympathetic natures, inasmuch as 
his independent spirit, having led him to resist 



254 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

the odious practice of fagging* he became an 
object of dislike to all the masters except one, 
and a subject of bitter persecution from the senior 
pupils. 

These were serious misfortunes to such a boy 
as Percy Shelley, with his sensitive and imagina- 
tive mind. They led him in his earliest years to 
ramble alone in solitary places, and to feed his 
imagination with stories of fairies, hobgoblins, 
ghosts, and demons, until it became distorted and 
diseased. Meeting with no sympathy at school, 
he isolated himself from his schoolmates, brooded 
over the real and supposed hardships of his situ- 
ation, grew resentful against the evils of his little 
world, set himself in opposition to the opinions of 
others, and persuaded himself, at length, that 
because he saw problems in the Christian religion 

* In the great public grammar schools of England it has been 
the custom, from immemorial time, for the junior pupils to perform 
sundry menial offices for the seniors. They black their boots, 
b,rush and mend their clothes, light their fires, make their beds, 
etc. This is called fagging. Where the big boy is of a cruel, 
tyrannical disposition, the young fag has a hard time, and when, 
he rises to the dignity of a higher class, and is entitled to the 
services of a fag himself, he is very apt to revenge his past 
wrongs on the little fellow who serves him. It is a practice 
fraught with injustice, and it is surprising that its continuance is 
permitted in a country so aristocratic and intelligent as England. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 255 

which he could not solve, therefore they were 
unsolvable. Then, under the consciousness of an 
intellectual vigor, which, though callow, half-in- 
structed, and undisciplined, was really rare, he 
put on the armor of a disputant, and, in the 
Quixotic spirit of a knight-errant, hurled his lance 
at the foundations of the Christian faith. In 
doing this, he foolishly advocated opinions which 
were not his own, for it can not be proved that 
he really accepted atheistic dogmas. The heads 
of his college, looking more at the possible evil 
influence of the imaginative young skeptic on his 
fellow-students than at the bearing of their act on 
the character and destiny of the offender, sum- 
marily expelled him. Had they reasoned with 
him, borne with him, and striven to win his affec- 
tion, the story of his after life might have been 
happier and his end less melancholy than they 
were. Nevertheless, they doubtless acted, as it 
appeared to them, for the best interests of the 
college committed to their charge. 

Young Shelley, driven from college by his own 
rash and foolish act, dared not venture at once to 



256 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

meet his choleric father. He went to London, in 
company with a fellow-student named Hogg, who 
was expelled at the same time, because he would 
not disavow the opinions set forth in his friend's 
atheistic pamphlet. The following extract from 
Mr. Efogg's "Life of Shelley," descriptive of their 
search for a suitable boarding-place, will give the 
reader a further insight into our young poet's 
character : 

"We found," says Mr. Hogg, "several rooms 
which seemed to me sufficiently comfortable, but 
in this matter Bysshe was rather fanciful. We 
entered a pleasant parlor; a man in the street, 
vociferated, ' Mackerel, fresh mackerel !' or ' Mus- 
cles, lily-white muscles !' Shelley was convulsed 
with horror, and, clapping his hands on his ears, 
rushed wildly out of doors. At the next house 
we were introduced to a cheerful little first-floor; 
the window was open; a cart was grinding leis- 
urely along. The driver suddenly cracked his 
whip, and Shelley started; so that would not do. 
At one place he fell in dudgeon with the maid's 
nose ; at another he took umbrage at the voice of 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 257 

the mistress. Never was a young beauty so hard 
to please, so capricious ! However, we came to 
Poland Street; it reminded him of Thaddeus of 
Warsaw and of freedom. We must lodge there, 
should we sleep even on the step of a door." 

Here they found rooms to let. One of them 
had trellised paper on the walls. " There were 
trellises, vine-leaves with their tendrils, and huge 
clusters of grapes, green and purple, all repre- 
sented in line, by colors. This was delightful; he 
went close up to the wall and touched it. 'We 
must stay here — stay forever!' he cried." And 
so the rooms were engaged. 

This scene was characteristic of the young 
man — exquisitely sensitive, impulsive, fastidious, 
capricious, sentimental, and self-willed. . And yet 
he had undertaken to overthrow the Christian 
religion! He had not yet learned to subject his 
feelings to the control of his judgment; neverthe- 
less, he would fain, by a tract and a poem 
(" Queen Mab"), convince saints and sages, phi- 
losophers and theologians, that the faith which 
had comforted millions of souls, and produced 

17 



258 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

the grandest civilization known to mankind, was 
without foundation in truth ! Was there ever a 
more monstrous bubble than the conceit of this 
brilliant but callow youth? 

Skepticism is rarely found to produce practical 
wisdom and irreproachable morality in the lives 
of its advocates. In Shelley it certainly did not. 
By a conciliatory course of action he might have 
recovered his college status and subdued his 
father's irritation. But his proud, independent 
spirit rejected even the thought of submission. 
Should he, the would-be reformer of public opin- 
ion, acknowledge himself to be in error? Pre- 
posterous idea ! He prepared to repeat his offense, 
and therefore he set to work at the completion 
and annotation of " Queen Mab," an atheistic 
poem begun some time before, copies of which 
he now distributed among his friends. Such was 
his haughty defiance of public opinion. 

His next conspicuous act, if less wicked, was 
equally foolish. This was his elopement and mar- 
riage to a school-girl whom he chanced to meet 
at a boarding-school near London, which was 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 259 

attended by one or two of his sisters. While vis- 
iting them, he saw a Miss Harriet Westbrook, "a 
handsome blonde, not more than sixteen." Her 
fresh, beautiful face made a deep impression on 
the young skeptic's sensitive heart. He corre- 
sponded with her, made her acquaintance, and 
became a visitor at her father's house. Mr. West- 
brook was a hotel-keeper of considerable wealth; 
but, according to the aristocratic notions prev- 
alent in England, his social position made it 
highly improper for him, the heir of a baronet, to 
marry an innkeeper's daughter. Shelley knew 
this, of course. He also knew that he had no 
means with which to support a wife during his 
father's life-time. Hence, an ordinary measure of 
prudence would have taught him not to cultivate 
an acquaintance which was likely to entangle his 
affections. But prudence was not one of our con- 
ceited young skeptic's virtues. He grew more 
and more intimate with the handsome blonde. 
He instructed her in his infidel sentiments, to 
which she but too readily responded. For some 
unexplained reason, this silly girl took a dislike 



260 



VANQUISHED VICTORS. 



to her school. But, being compelled to attend 
by paternal authority, Shelley's diseased imagina- 
tion pictured her as a helpless victim of intoler- 
ance. He advised her to resist, which was, of 
course, impossible so long as she depended on 
her father. Compelled to continue at school, 
Miss Harriet threw herself on her lover's protec- 
tion, and boldly, if not modestly, signified her 
willingness to flee with him to the ends of the 
earth. Then, after scarcely six months' acquaint- 
ance, utterly regardless of consequences, the ex- 
pelled collegian contrived to take this silly girl 
from school and to carry her to Gretna Green, on 
the border of Scotland, where they were irregu- 
larly married.* 

As might be expected, Shelley's father, already 
greatly irritated by his son's expulsion from col- 
lege, was highly exasperated by this ill-assorted 
marriage. But for the entail of the family estate 
upon his wayward son, it is quite likely that he 

* By Scottish law, an acknowledgment before witnesses of an 
intention to live together as man and wife constitutes a valid mar- 
riage, even though unaccompanied by suitable religious ceremo- 
nies; but such marriages were deemed irregular and disreputable 
by all good people. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 26l 

would have disowned him, and "cut him?>ff with 
a shilling" in his will. Finding this to be legally 
impossible, he consented, after considerable delay, 
to make him an annual allowance. Meanwhile, 
the young couple, more or less straitened for 
pecuniary means, had moved from place to place, 
making their abode first in Scotland, and after- 
ward in England and Ireland. . Two short years 
sufficed to dissolve the charm of this romantic 
marriage in the bitter waters of estrangement. 
They then separated by mutual consent. Three 
years later the unhappy woman took her own life 
by throwing herself into a pond. A tragic ending 
to what, in the beginning, appeared to her inex- 
perienced mind in the light of a delightful depart- 
ure on the voyage of a charmed life. 

Shelley had scarcely parted from this unfortu- 
nate girl before he did a deed which, though in 
strict harmony with his loose opinions respecting 
the sanctity of marriage, was insulting to his for- 
saken wife, and a violation of the laws of God 
and man. He made Mary Wolstonecraft God- 
win — daughter of the notorious authoress of the 



262 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

" Rights of Woman" — his mistress, and fled with 
her to Switzerland. This act, however, was a 
legitimate fruit of those so-called liberal princi- 
ples, by spreading which he and other opponents 
of our holy religion proposed — and still propose — 
to reform the institutions of society and regenerate 
mankind. 

Universal justice, love for all that is lovely, 
universal philanthropy, absolute toleration, were 
Shelley's watchwords. His poems flash and spar- 
kle with beautiful lines in praise of these virtues. 
But they ring hollow and false in the ears of 
every one who sees their author deliberately wal- 
lowing in the mire of this adulterous connection. 
Justice, indeed! Was it justice to abandon the 
woman to whom he had pledged fidelity until 
death? Was it love to break her heart, and drive 
her to distraction and a suicidal death, as he did 
by forsaking her? Was it either love or justice 
to put Miss Godwin outside the pale of respecta- 
ble society, as he did by this unlawful connection? 
Away with such sentimental conceptions of those 
grand virtues! He who loves justice acts rightly. 



PERCY BYSSFIE SHELLEY. 263 

He who loves truly, honors, never degrades, the 
object of his affection. As to toleration, no true- 
hearted man demands more than liberty of 
thought and free scope for virtuous action. To 
ask toleration for vicious practice is to seek the 
overthrow of civilized society. 

But this brilliant man of sentiment did not 
escape the strokes of an avenging Nemesis. 
When his wife destroyed herself, the blandish- 
ments of his mistress could not prevent the influx 
of an overwhelming heart anguish, which he ex- 
pressed in these and similar lines: 

"That time is dead forever, child! 
Drowned, frozen, dead forever; 
We look on the past, 
And stare aghast 

At the specters wailing pale and ghast 
Of hopes that thou and I beguiled 
On death's dark river." 

This was not mere sentiment, but the utter- 
ance of a remorse so terrible that it drove him to 
the verge of madness, to "the devouring edge of 
mental darkness." 

Besides the pangs of remorse caused by the 



264 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

untimely death of his wife, Shelley was doomed 
to suffer the anguish of enforced separation from 
the two children she had borne him. "No man/' 
says one of his biographers, "was fonder of his 
children than Shelley; he loved them to idolatry, 
and clung to them as part and parcel of himself." 
Nevertheless, the Court of Chancery decreed that, 
in view of his published atheistic sentiments, he 
was an unfit person to superintend their educa- 
tion, and that they should be placed under the 
guardianship of their maternal grandfather. This 
was a terrible blow — a heart- wound, from the ef- 
fects of which he never recovered. Nevertheless, 
we can not help thinking his suffering was de- 
served, and that it was merciful in its influence 
upon his children. Most assuredly it saved them 
from being educated into those skeptical opinions 
which were the bane of their father's life. 

After the death of his first wife, the father of 
Miss Godwin importuned him to relieve her from 
the social stigma arising out of their illicit con- 
nection by a legal marriage. To this demand, 
with characteristic inconsistency, he consented, 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 265 

and Miss Godwin became Mrs. Shelley. We call 
this marriage an inconsistency, because the poet 
had long before adopted the immoral opinions of 
Miss Godwin's father respecting marriage. He 
had called it "a despotic, unrequired fetter — the 
fruit of superstition. " Yet, in deference to "the 
opinion of the world," which he pronounced "a 
monster more terrific" than superstition itself, he 
had married, first, Miss Westbrook, and then Miss 
Godwin. Of course, we think these marriages 
were essential to the innocency of his relations 
to those women, but what can be said of his 
courage ? He maintained opinions which he 
dared not practice; at least, not continuously. 
Happily for society, the martyr spirit was not in 
him. Nor is it often found in skeptical men; for 
the reason, we suppose, that, their theories not 
being grounded in right and truth, they can not 
command that support from the conscience which 
sustains every man who is ready to die for the 
truth. 

Skepticism is rife in these evil times. The 
young reader is no doubt more or less in contact 



266 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

with its plausible but loathsome sentiments. For 
his benefit we quote a confession of its social 
tendencies from one of Shelley's letters to his 
friend Hogg : 

" Anti-matrimonialism is as necessarily con- 
nected with skepticism as if religion and marriage 
began their course together." 

But did not religion and matrimony begin 
their course together? Was not the first mani- 
festation of the Creator to man in Paradise ac- 
companied with a nuptial benediction? Did he 
not lay the foundation of society by the institution 
of the sacred rite of marriage? Most unques- 
tionably he did. "Nevertheless," says Shelley, 
"anti-matrimonialism is necessarily connected with 
skepticism." Of course it is. In denying the 
fact of divine revelation to man, it denies an in- 
stitution which had its origin in such a revelation. 
And doing this; it condemns itself as opposed to 
the purity, happiness, and progress of mankind; 
for no sane mind can avoid the conviction that 
the abolition of marriage would be the destruction 
of society. It is wise, therefore, to regard skep- 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 267 

ticism as a malignant Python, seeking to crush 
out the moral and spiritual life of mankind in its 
scaly folds. 

Shelley now sought escape from his mental 
misery in those poetic compositions which have 
given him a high place among poets. He pro- 
duced his "Revolt of Islam" about the time of 
his second marriage. In 181 7 he left England 
and went to Italy, where he remained until his 
death. Here he became intimate with Byron, 
who, like himself, was at war with society and 
brimful of wretchedness, which likewise sought 
alleviation in writing poetry. Restless as a bird, 
Shelley moved from place to place, now writing 
his "Prometheus Unbound" and his "Julian and 
Maddalo" at Lucca; then at Rome, still busy on 
his "Prometheus;" and next at Florence, com- 
posing his tragedy, "The Cenci." Soon after we 
find him at Leghorn, and then near Pisa, writing 
his "Witch of Atlas," and finally at a house on 
the Gulf of Lerici. 

Shelley always had an exceeding fondness for 
the sea, and . was much accustomed to boating. 



268 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

He owned a small yacht, built after a model of 
his own invention, in which he often sailed on 
the adjacent gulf. One day in June, 1822, he 
started in this yacht, with a friend named Will- 
iams, for Leghorn, where he expected to meet 
Leigh Hunt. Mrs. Shelley parted from him with 
an intense presentiment of coming evil, which, 
she afterward said, " shook her to agony." Shel- 
ley himself was in "brilliant spirits." The run to 
Leghorn was rapid and pleasant. He met his 
friend, Hunt, and, after seeing him comfortably 
settled at Pisa, started on his return to Lerici on 
the eighth day of July, in company with Mr. 
Williams, and a boy named Charles Vivian. The 
weather, for several days had been close and 
sultry, as it often is in Italy, but the sky showed 
signs of one of those sudden, fierce squalls com- 
mon in those waters. His friends advised him 
not to sail. Scorning their advice, he hoisted 
sail and left port with a fair but faint wind. For 
some time his yacht made rapid way under a 
heavy press of sail. Presently, when it was off 
Via Reggio, a fierce gust drove him furiously 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 269 

along, blackening the water and enfolding his 
little vessel in its misty arms : 

"Enveloping the ocean like a pall, 
It blotted out the vessel from the view." 

The wind soon lulled, the mist cleared, but 
the yacht, with its hapless owner and his com- 
panions, was buried beneath the treacherous sea. 

For eight days, however, his friends remained 
uncertain of his fate. Then the sea gave up its 
dead, washing the bodies ashore at Via Reggio. 
Here, after a brief delay, the remains of Shelley 
and Williams were cremated, or burned. The 
ashes of Shelley were then taken to Rome for 
interment, and those of Williams sent to England. 
Thus, at thirty years of age, did the unhappy 
poet suddenly quit a world which, owing chiefly 
to his own self-will and pride of opinion, had 
yielded him little pleasure and much heart agony. 

Poor Shelley ! In spite of his great faults there 
was much in him to admire. He was extremely 
temperate both in eating and drinking. He was, 
in fact, a vegetarian. He seemed full of the 
milk of human kindness, never refusing aid to 



270 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

the miserable. Nevertheless, we can not avoid 
the impression that much of his kindness, like 
Charles Lamb's, was the offspring of his impulses, 
of a delicate sensitiveness, which led him to 
relieve visible distress, as much to soften the pain 
it gave him to witness it, as to benefit the suf- 
ferer. Had his kindness been of a profounder 
nature, it would surely have kept him from break- 
ing the heart of his. first wife by deserting her. 
Moreover, we are told, that, after her suicide he 
reproached himself, not for putting her away, but 
because "he had not selected a female of a 
higher order of intellect, who could appreciate 
better the feelings of one constituted as he was." 
Surely this was the self-reproach of a cold heart, 
which measured the value of the woman he had 
sworn to love by her ability to minister to his 
mental vagaries, and not by her intrinsic worth. 
Shelley's admirers speak highly of his sincerity in 
maintaining his skeptical opinions. Possibly he 
was sincere in that he really believed some of the 
doctrines he asserted, but we do not believe he 
was a sincere seeker after truth. There was no 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 27 1 

docility in his nature. He abhorred authority. 
What looked like truth to his mind he accepted, 
because he had reached the conclusion by his 
own reasonings rather than because it was truth. 
It was, however, his misfortune to be without 
fixed opinions, and his biographers can not agree 
as to whether he was atheist, pantheist, or deist. 
He hated Christianity bitterly, but professed to 
respect the character of Jesus, and to admire 
many things in Holy Writ. He was, in fact, an 
enigmatical man, a bundle of contradictions, an 
erratic genius. He loved intensely the beautiful 
in nature and in art, and threw his glorious con- 
ceptions of it into poetry, which justifies his claim 
to a lofty niche in the temple of earthly fame. 
But, though crowned with the laurels of a master 
of poetic art, a victor in the intellectual arena, he 
never won the nobler mastery of himself, nor 
rose to the loftier honor of being a son of God 
by faith in Christ Jesus, a benefactor of mankind, 
or an exemplar to succeeding generations. 




XII. 



CHARLES DICKENS, 



Q£ije popular Nofceltet. 



l^jlOME forty years since the reading world 
iB^fil in England was asking, with eager and 
pleased excitement, "Who is Boz?" The 
stimulant of this almost universal inquiry 
was a serial story, published in monthly unmbers, 
called the "Pickwick Papers," which nearly every 
body was reading. Such was the sensation cre- 
ated by this work, when it reached the point 
where Samuel Weller is introduced, that it became 
the theme of every reader. The boys and girls 
quoted its humorous sayings in the street; the 
most popular physician in London, Sir Benjamin 

Brodie, read it as he rode in his carriage to visit 

272 



CHARLES DICKENS. 273 

his patients; and a distinguished judge, Lord 
Denman, read it on the bench while his jury de- 
liberated. As it was printed without the author's 
name, with only his pseudonym, Boz, on the title- 
page, every body soon began to ask, "Who is 
Boz?" And so unknown to fame was its author 
at that time that when his publishers said, "Boz 
is Charles Dickens," the public at first supposed 
that this name was also fictitious. An epigram 
of the hour put the question thus: 

"Who the dickens Boz could be 
Puzzled many a learned elf; 
But time unveiled the mystery, 

And Boz appeared as Dickens' self." 

The question being fairly answered, the author 
rose to sudden distinction. He became the liter- 
ary lion of the hour. And, what is still more to 
his credit, he maintained an unceasing popularity 
to the day of his death, in 1870. During a period 
of thirty-four years Charles Dickens was the most 
popular writer of fiction in all England, and 
wherever else the English language was spoken. 
The maidens in thousands of English kitchens 



274 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

laughed at his Samivel, or shed tears over his 
Little Nell, and the Queen of England shared 
their feelings as she read his books in her cush- 
ioned library at Windsor Castle. Let us inquire 
whence this noted writer came, and what were 
the opportunities of his early life. 

Charles Dickens could not boast of an illus- 
trious ancestry, or point to a noble mansion as 
the place of his birth. On the contrary, he was 
of very humble origin. His father, John Dickens, 
was a Government clerk in the Dock -yard at 
Portsmouth when Charles was born, on the 7th 
of February, 181 2, in a very modest house at 
Landport, near Portsmouth. He was the eldest 
son, and the second of eight children. When a 
year old he was taken to Chatham by his parents, 
where he remained until he was four years old, 
when his father, being discharged and pensioned 
by the government, removed to London, and be- 
came a reporter on the Morning Chronicle, 

There was not much in the circumstances of 
Dickens's childhood to help start him on a career 
to celebrity. On the contrary, he was oppressed 



CHARLES DICKENS. 275 

by many disadvantages. First among these was 
his personal feebleness. "He was a very little 
and a very sickly boy." Then, to use his own 
words, he was a "not-over-particulariy-taken-care- 
of boy," except that his mother taught him the 
rudiments of both English and Latin, and the 
Rev. Mr. Giles, a Baptist minister, added such 
instructions as were afforded at his academy in 
Clover Lane until he was nine years old. Be- 
sides these helps was the influence of such novels 
as "Roderick Random," "Don Quixote," "Gil 
Bias," "Robinson Crusoe," and the "Arabian 
Nights," in prematurely developing his lively im- 
agination, and rendering his highly sensitive tem- 
perament singularly active. No doubt these works 
had much to do in determining his future. They 
made him a novel-writer. 

His childish ambition was powerfully awakened 
by a very simple circumstance. While yet a very 
small boy, walking out with his father, he was 
one day passing Gadshill Place, a house between 
Rochester and Gravesend, which was the scene 
of FalstafFs departure to rob the Canterbury 



276 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

travelers. He begged his father to stop, that he 
might look at the house. Seeing that the structure 
had a sort of fascination for him, his father said : 

"If you are very persevering, and work very 
hard, you may some day come to live in it." 

The small boy drew a long breath, and said 
to himself, "That *s impossible." Nevertheless, 
the thought became an inspiration to his ambition, 
and he lived to become the owner and occupant 
of that very estate. 

When he was about nine years old, owing to 
pecuniary difficulties, his father, after fighting a 
hopeless battle with his creditors, became an in- 
mate of a debtor's prison v This misfortune bore 
hard on poor little Charles, first by keeping him 
out of school for three years, and next by doom- 
ing him to toil from morning till night in the 
blacking manufactory of his cousin, doing up 
countless bottles of blacking. Deprived of home 
sympathies — for he was obliged to lodge with 
strangers — cut off from companionship with boys 
of his own age and aspirations, pining in vain for 
the sympathy of loving hearts and appreciative 



CHARLES DICKENS. 277 

spirits, and left wholly to himself when his daily 
tasks were finished, the poor, sensitive, prema- 
turely thoughtful boy suffered exceedingly. It is 
highly creditable to his childish character that he 
did not sink in feeling to the low level of the 
boys with whom he wrought, and that his tastes 
and aspirations not only kept him aloof and apart 
from the vices of his companions, but actually 
awakened in him that tender sympathy for the 
wretched poor, which is one of the highest excel- 
lencies of his writings. 

An opportune legacy having prepared the way 
for his good-natured but impecunious father's 
release from prison, and a fortunate quarrel be- 
tween his father and his cousin-employer having 
caused his sudden dismissal from the blacking 
factory, Charles was once more sent to a school, 
kept in London by a Welshman named Jones. 
By this time his health had improved. He had 
become a "healthy-looking boy, small, but well 
built, with a more than usual flow of spirits induc- 
ing to harmless fun." He gave no indication of 
future celebrity, however, during the whole of his 



278 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

three years' stay at this institution, nor during 
a brief term which he spent subsequently at 
another school. 

His school education was now finished. What 
it had done for him was but too faithfully ex- 
pressed by his easy-going father when soliciting a 
place for his son in an attorney's office. Said the 
attorney : 

4 'Pray, Mr. Dickens, where was your son 
educated?" 

"Why, indeed, sir, — ha! ha! he may be said 
to have educated himself!" 

Thus, partially educated, he now w T ent into an 
attorney's office as a sort of "office-lad." But, 
not finding his work there at all congenial, nor 
seeing any prospect of advancement before him, 
he soon turned his attention to the study of short- 
hand, intending to seek employment as a parlia- 
mentary reporter. This task, pursued without the 
aid of a tutor, was a hard one. But young Dick- 
ens undertook it with a resolution to master it. 
He devoted himself to it completely, throwing all 
his powers into it. The result was that he sue- 



CHARLES DICKENS. 279 

ceeded, and when nineteen years of age he 
entered the reporter's gallery. There, by the 
most painstaking faithfulness, he speedily won his 
way to the front rank. The little, half-starved 
paster of labels on blacking-bottles had worked 
his way, with very little parental aid, into a 
respectable position which assured him the means 
of comfortable self-maintenance. The means by 
which he suddenly blazed forth in the world of 
literature as "a bright particular star," command- 
ing the admiration of thousands of readers shall 
next be considered. 

One evening in December, 1833, a young man 
was seen moving stealthily up a dark court in 
Fleet Street, London, and into a dark office. 
There he crept with fear and trembling up to a 
dark letter-box, into which he dropped a manu- 
script, and then stole back through the court into 
the street. When the said manuscript appeared 
in print, a month later, in the pages of the Old 
Monthly Magazine y the same young man walked, 
with a copy of it in his hand, from the Strand to 
Westminster Hall, and "turned into it for half an 



28o VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

hour, because his eyes were so dimmed with joy 
and pride that they could not bear the street, and 
were not fit to be seen there." 

That young man was Charles Dickens. The 
manuscript contained the first of a series of 
sketches which, after appearing in the aforesaid 
monthly and In the Morning Chronicle, were pub- 
lished, two years later, in two volumes, under the 
title of " Sketches by Boz." This literary venture 
put a little money into his pocket, and gave 
him some reputation, but did not make him a 
celebrity. 

Encouraged by his success as a writer and 
reporter, Dickens married Miss Hogarth in the 
Spring of 1836. About the same time, at the sug- 
gestion of a publisher named Hall, he began the 
"Pickwick Papers " in monthly numbers. Their 
success was not very decided at first, but when, 
in the fifth number, he introduced the irresistible 
Sam Weller, they began to b>e highly relished 
by the public. When the fifteenth number was 
reached, its sales amounted to forty thousand 
copies, and its hitherto unknown author found 



CHARLES DICKENS. 28 1 

himself on the topmost wave of an almost unex- 
ampled popularity. 

The publication of " Oliver Twist" so added to 
his reputation that all classes of society became 
enthusiastic over the fact that a master in ficti- 
tious literature had arisen among them. Thus, by 
a single bound, this remarkable young man leaped 
from almost absolute obscurity to high literary re- 
noAvn. Each of his numerous subsequent works 
increased the luster of a name which commanded 
the affectionate admiration of millions of readers 
to the end of his busy life. 

Only seven years after his stealthy, timid ven- 
ture into a publisher's office with his first manu- 
script, we find Dickens in Edinburgh, receiving 
the honors of a public dinner, given him by the 
highest dignitaries, civic and literary, in that in- 
tellectual city. His hotel is beseiged by callers 
of the highest distinction. The freedom of the 
city is voted him by acclamation, and, to escape 
similar honors in Glasgow, he confesses, with a 
discreditable disregard of truthfulness, "to having 
circulated false rumors of my movements." A 



282 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

year later he visited our shores, where his jour- 
neys were ovations. All classes, from the leaders 
of thought down to the most obscure of his read- 
ers, hastened to do homage to the genius which 
had created Pickwick, Oliver Twist, Little Nell, 
Barnaby Rudge, and other typical characters that 
had ministered so much to their amusement in 
idle hours. We regret to add, that the snobbish 
spirit with which he received this homage was by 
no means creditable to his heart; he secretly 
laughed at his enthusiastic admirers and openly 
caricatured them in his . "American Notes," pub- 
lished shortly after his return to England. 

After the "Notes" came "Martin Chuzzle- 
wit," "Dombey and Son," *' David Copperfield," 
"Bleak House," "Little Dorrit," " Great Expecta- 
tions," "Our Mutual Friend,"and other works, with 
numerous and various contributions to Household 
Words and All the Year Round. The resources of 
his genius seemed as inexhaustible as was the 
admiration of his unnumbered readers. No other 
writer of his times was so widely read or so popu- 
lar with all classes. 



CHARLES DICKENS. 283 

This remarkable enthusiasm of the people for 
his writings seems to have extended to his person 
also. He was not only the idol of the small cir- 
cle of distinguished wits, artists, and authors with 
whom he was most intimate, but also of the peo- 
ple in whose interests his books were largely 
written. This was seen whenever he presided or 
spoke at public meetings for charitable objects. 
On such occasions the announcement that he 
would be present was sufficient to fill the largest 
halls in London or any other city, and his recep- 
tion by the crowds who thronged them Avas 
demonstrative in the highest degree. 

His perception that his personal popularity 
could be made pecuniarily profitable, and his 
conviction that it would harmonize with his char- 
acteristic " restlessness, " led him. in 1858, to 
enter the field as a public reader of his own pro- 
ductions. The result fully justified his most san- 
guine expectations. His readings were successful 
to an extraordinary degree. Wherever he went 
the largest halls were too contracted to admit all 
who desired to hear Pickwick, Weller, Little 



284 



VANQUISHED VICTORS. 



Nell, Oliver, and other favorite creations of his 
genius, speak through the lips of the great magi- 
cian whose wand had called them into existence. 
And as those vast crowds listened, they were 
convulsed with laughter or melted to tears. Nor 
was a public reader ever more enduringly popular 
than Dickens. For although he continued to 
appear before the public in this capacity, at near 
intervals, during twelve years (including his visit 
of four months to America, where he netted one 
hundred thousand dollars), yet the desire to 
hear him was unabated to the very last. His 
career as a public reader was a grand triumph 
from the beginning to the end. It also made 
him a rich man by adding some quarter of a 
million dollars to his fortune. 

We have already mentioned the hope awakened 
by his father's remark, in the mind of Dickens, 
when he was a small boy, respecting his future 
possible ownership of Gadshill Place. That hope 
became a reality in 1856, when he purchased 
that property for about nine thousand dollars. It 
was a proud satisfaction for him to enter upon the 



CHARLES DICKENS. 285 

possession of an estate which had so long charmed 
his imagination, though after buying it he was not 
much delighted with it. But as he improved it 
his liking for it increased, and, after a brief inter- 
val, he removed into it and made it his perma- 
nent residence. Henceforth he could half-proudly 
and half-humorously say, ''Gadshill Place, the 
tide of my estate, sir, my place down in Kent." 
We now behold Dickens in the full possession 
of all that he desired, and vastly more than he 
had dreamed of in his youth. Celebrity, popu- 
larity, wealth, social respectability, public respect, 
and even affection, had all been won by the force 
of his own unaided genius. He owed almost 
every thing to himself; very little to others. True, 
he had worked hard, as all really successful men 
must. His books had cost him the constant un- 
wearied, persistent, all-absorbing toil of many of 
his best years. His readings succeeded because 
of much laborious preparation, which was never 
relaxed. Thus work, hard work, very hard work, 
applied to the development of his remarkable 
natural gifts, made Dickens a victor in his struggle 



286 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

for fame, wealth, and social position. And his 
victory was brilliant. It was no light thing in 
aristocratic old England for an unfriended boy to 
climb from that cellar window, where he pasted 
labels on blacking-bottles for a scanty living, np 
to that giddy height of popularity on which Dick- 
ens stood during the greater part of his life. A 
proud victor, therefore, was he in the race of 
life; but did he win that greatest of all prizes — 
that only prize which is really worth winning — a 
Christ-like character? While standing before the 
world crowned with the laurels of popular ap- 
plause, did he also wear that yoke of Christ which 
brings rest to the soul of its wearer? This ques- 
tion we shall now endeavor to answer. 

There is so much of human sympathy in the 
writings of this great novelist, and so much prac- 
tical benevolence in his actual life, that it really 
pains one to reach the sad conclusion that, with 
all his wealth of human kindness, he failed to 
win the highest good; that, after all, he was only 
a man of the world, and not an experimental 
Christian. What his religious views were it is 



CHARLES DICKENS. 287 

difficult to learn from his biographers. One of 
them claims that he was a Unitarian; another 
that he held to the tenets of the Church of Eng- 
land. In one of his letters to a son leaving 
home, he speaks reverently of Jesus and of the 
New Testament. In his will he commits his 
"soul to the mercy of God through our Lord 
and Savior Jesus Christ/' and exhorts his children 
to guide themselves "by the teaching of the New 
Testament in its broad sense, and to put no faith 
in any man's na?'row construction of its tetter, here 
or there." 

By taking these italicized words, in connection 
with his writings and his general manner of life, 
as our guides, we may form a tolerably correct 
judgment concerning his profession of faith in 
Christ as made in his will. Evidently he meant 
to condemn the orthodox view of Christian doc- 
trine by the phrase, "narrow construction," and 
by the "broad sense" of the New Testament he 
intended to designate its humanitarianism sepa- 
rated from its spiritual claims — its requirement of 
a divine life in the soul springing from the "love 



288 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

of God shed abroad in the heart by the Holy- 
Ghost given unto us." There is not a particle of 
evidence, either in his books or letters, that 
Dickens had either the faintest conception of 
such a life, or the feeblest desire for its posses- 
sion. He was kind, he was charitable to the 
bodies of men (of charity to the soul he knew 
nothing), he was moral according to the standard 
of worldly society, he was full of sympathy for 
the outcast poor, but he was wot pious. In point 
of fact, he did his best, through his Stigginses 
and his Chadbands, to make his readers believe 
that a profession of piety is sure evidence of 
hypocrisy. 

Had Dickens been an experimental Christian, 
sound in the faith, his writings would somewhere 
have betrayed that fact. But, it has been truly 
said, "it is sad that the really Christian element 
is lacking in his pages." 

Another able critic has well remarked: 
"The good characters of Mr. Dickens's novels 
do not seem to have a wholesome moral tendency. 
The reason is that many of them — all the author's 



CHARLES DICKENS. 289 

favorites — exhibit an excellence flowing from con- 
stitution and temperament, and not from the in- 
fluence of moral or religious motive. They act 
from impulse, not from principle. They present 
no struggle of contending passions; they are in- 
stinctively incapable of evil. It is this that makes 
them unreal — 

'Faultless monsters that the world ne'er saw.' 

11 Another error is the undue prominence given 
to good temper and kindness, which are con- 
stantly made substitutes for all other virtues, and 
an atonement for the want of them, while a de- 
fect in these good qualities is the signal for instant 
condemnation and the charge of hypocrisy. It is 
unfortunate, also, that Mr. Dickens so frequently 
represents persons with pretensions to virtue and 
piety as mere -rogues and hypocrites, and never 
depicts any whose station as clergymen, or repu- 
tation for piety, is consistently adorned and 
verified." 

The eloquent M. Taine undesignedly concedes 
the absence of the religious element when he says 
that the "romances of Dickens may really be 

19 



290 



VANQUISHED VICTORS. 



expressed in one single phrase: Be good, and be 
loving. There is no real happiness but the feel- 
ings of the heart; its sensibilities are the whole of 
man. . . . Believe that humanity, pity, for- 
giveness, are the best qualities of man; that 
friendship, confidence, tenderness, tears, are the 
sweetest experiences of life. To live is nothing; 
to be useful even is not enough. He only has 
lived, he only is a man, who has wept over the 
remembrance of a kindness done or received." 

Doubtless these critics are right. Dickens 
teaches humanitarianism, but it is a humanitari- 
anism which is the offspring of natural goodness, 
not of a heart made new by the grace of God 
through faith in Christ. 

Dickens's life was in harmony with his printed 
views. It was not a Christian life. It did not 
always respect the Sabbath. It was made up of 
work, travel, and fun. He was indeed somewhat 
of an epicurean, kept a French cook and a but- 
ler, loved good wine, revelry, and merriment. 
His letters betray a habit of using profane ex- 
pressions. The theater was his constant resort 



CHARLES DICKENS. 29 1 

when opportunity served. But we let his ad- 
mirers give us some inside views of his habits 
of life. 

Franklin Phelp, quoted by Mackenzie, was a 
guest of Dickens at his home on Gadshill in 
1869. He says: "On arrival (half-past twelve), 
commenced with the ' cider-cup/ . . . delicious, 
cooling drink — cider, soda-water, sherry, brandy, 
lemon-peel, sugar, ice, etc. . . , Lunch at one 
o'clock, completed by a liquor which Dickens 
said was * peculiar to the house/ ... at half- 
past three interval for 'cool brandy and water.' 
. . . Dinner faultless, wines irreproachable. . . . 
Eleven o'clock, 'hot and rebellious liquors,' de- 
lightfully compounded into punches." 

In Nathaniel Hawthorne's "English Note- 
book," under date October, 1853, it is stated that, 
"during some [amateur] theatricals in Liverpool, 
he, Dickens, acted in play and farce, spent the 
rest of the night in making speeches, feasting, 
and drinking at table, and ended at seven o'clock 
by jumping leap-frog over the backs of the whole 
company. " 



292 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

"His keen enjoyment of the society of his 
friends," says F. B. Perkins, "was carried to an 
extent, in respect of convivial indulgence, which 
has left upon his printed works the only feature 
that is really open to animadversion. . . . On 
the whole, and for the United States, it can not 
be said that his works can be safely received as a 
guide in the matter of using alcoholic beverages." 

"He was a generous liver," says Donald G. 
Mitchell, "in the English sense of that term. 
He loved a good dinner. He kept a French 
cook. He took wine with his dinner habitually, 
and very likely a sip of cognac after dinner. . . . 
But, on the other hand, he was most methodic in 
his habits. He indulged in no stimulants to 
quicken his working power, or before the hour 
of dinner, at six P. M." 

We do not infer from these passages that 
Charles Dickens, tried by the standards of the 
world, was an immoral man, albeit had he pos- 
sessed as weak a head and stomach as poor 
Charles Lamb the wine and the punches in which 
he indulged might have made him reel; but we 



CHARLES DICKENS. 2p3 

do insist that such conviviality, drinking, theatrical 
passion, and epicureanism shall not be termed 
Christian virtues, nor regarded as the fruits of a 
regenerated life. 

But perhaps the strongest evidence against the 
Christian character of this distinguished man is 
the fact of his excessive restlessness, "I will 
give you rest," says Jesus, but mental repose was 
a state to which this successful man never at- 
tained. It pains one to read those portions of his 
correspondence with his friend and biographer, 
Foster, in which he complains of a "craving to 
get by some means at some change that shall 
make existence easier. " "I have," he says, "no 
relief but in action. I am become incapable of 
rest. . . . Restlessness, you will say. Whatever it 
is, it is always driving me, and I can not help it. 
If I could n't walk fast and far, I should just ex- 
plode and perish. . . . However strange it is to be 
never at rest and never satisfied, and ever trying 
after something that is never reached, and to be 
always laden with plot and plan and care and 
worry, how clear it is that it must be, and that 



294 VANQUISHED VICTORS. 

one is driven by an irresistible might until the 
journey is worked out. . . . As to repose, for 
some men there's no such thing in this life." 

These expressions of the spirit shown in his 
letters, through ten years, betray an anguish of 
soul which could not have co-existed with that 
"rest" which is inseparable from the Christian 
life. It seems to have found partial relief, at 
length, in the excitements connected with his 
public readings, which he engaged in because, as 
he said, "I must do soinething, or I shall wear my 
heart away." 

Alas for such a victor as this, writhing, amidst 
the world's plaudits, in burning chains he could 
not break! Say, if you will, that much of this 
pain grew out of his unexplained estrangement 
from his wife, who, as he confesses, was "amiable 
and complying," and who was the mother of his 
ten children, but from whose mind he had grown 
away, and from whom he separated in 1858; yet, 
had he been the possessor of that grace of God 
which is "sufficient" for every human need, he 
could have borne with what he terms her "in- 



CHARLES DICKENS. 295 

compatibility," and subdued in himself the "thou- 
sand uncertainties, caprices, and difficulties of 
disposition" to which he confessed. But he 
evidently knew nothing of that sweet "rest" 
which is found only on the bosom of Jesus. He 
sought repose in the excitements of writing, trav- 
eling, public reading, conviviality, fun, theatrical 
amusements, and domestic entertainments, but he 
never found it. Nevertheless, he kept up the 
vain pursuit until the 8th of June, 1870. Then, 
after writing several pages of his unfinished work, 
"Edwin Drood," he sat down to dinner. But 
his brain reeled; he fell, exclaiming: 

"On the ground!" 

These were his last words, The next morning 
he was dead. His remains were interred among 
the mighty dead in Westminster Abbey. His 
name is written among the masters of literature 
on earth. Is it also among those who, having 
won the mastery over the world, the flesh, and 
the devil, are counted more than conquerors by 
the Master of souls? Who dares hope that it is? 



